Lolita was an intense and intoxicating read, but what drew me in more than the plot was Vladmir Nabokov's writing style. His long-winded sentences are pure poetry, and every page was filled with so much zest that I felt like I had to share the passage with someone out loud. It makes going back to contemporary books seem almost impossible! But anyways, plot-wise, I sometimes forgot that Lolita is a piece of fiction. Humbert's point of view is so vivid that I almost always sympathized with him and his unethical decisions. The amount of passion that he has for Dolores Haze is unreal and unmatched in the real world. He literally fantasizes about seeing her name on a piece of paper, and for that, I hold his corrupt love for her in an almost beautiful light. If you're expecting some sort of dirty-read, this is not one of them. Every mention of sex and lust is cast in a very glorified light, so if you get shit for reading something that seems completely sickening, I'd say don't knock it till you try it. Though Humbert's actions are completely unforgivable, Lolita is less about controversy and more about the beauty of a tragic love affair.

“All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other's soul and flesh; but there we were, unable even to mate as slum children would have so easily found an opportunity to do so."

“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."

"I looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth. She was only the dead-leaf echo of the nymphet from long ago - but I loved her, this Lolita, pale and polluted and big with another man's child. She could fade and wither - I didn't care. I would still go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of her face."