Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

And so begins one of the most (in)famous / brilliant / unnerving / beautiful / haunting / poetic pieces of writing in the English language. Yet as we know, substance and style are two very different things, but it is this tension that Nabokov holds in balance so expertly as he challenges us: can we suspend moral judgement in favour of aesthetic appreciation?

I really could write so much about this novel, but all I am going to say here is this: read it.

Lay aside any preconceptions you may have and read it now. You may not necessarily like it, but this is an astonishing work of literature.