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Plus Size Casual Dresses and Plus Size Summer Dresses

Shop for plus size casual dresses online at Perfectly Priscilla where you’ll find trendy casual and summer dresses to suit your signature style! Welcome to a bold new realm of plus size sundresses for bodacious, full-figured women!

Perfectly Priscilla will help you rock a sexy summer sundress whether you&rs lewlmmzi. timberland pro bottes de travailquo;re going to be spending a day at a resort or at a BBQ with friends. We offer a varied selection of summer sundresses for plus size women to help you stay cool, casual and glamorous with a touch of Southern charm!


Looking for a dress that’s casual but still endearing and ok to get sand on? You can let your hair down in a plus size sundress, soak up the rays, or dip your feet in the cool seaside water as you stroll along the beach with a glass of Pinot Grigio in your hand, all without fretting over spills and stains.

In fact, if you’re not smiling in a sundress, you’re wearing it wrong! You can feel like a real southern belle in one and you wouldn’t be the first to be transformed by its charm. Elizabeth Taylor, Katherine Hepburn, Charlize Theron, Lady Diana, Oprah Winfrey – some of the world’s most powerful and glamorous females - have graced us with their presence in an elegant sundress. Plus size casual dresses can be as beautiful as well more formal dresses. How you feel in a dress is as important as it looks. If you feel beautiful and confident, then you send out positive vibes to others and they will notice your cheery energy!


Visit the ancient Egyptian display at any museum and you’re sure to come across beautiful wall paintings of slim, elegant, lavishly bejeweled women in long, close-fitting garments made of light, breezy fabrics that flutter in the slightest breeze. Picture Cleopatra, queen of the Nile, lounging with her Roman lover, Antony, on a papyrus barge in 100 degrees Fahrenheit weather.

Ok, the Egyptians didn’t exactly invent the sundress, but the concept of a simple, functional elegant dress that wraps around the body or hangs lightly from the shoulders was there in bold relief. Worn by royalty and commoners alike, this simple item of clothing was worn for centuries with little change and could be found throughout the ancient Mediterranean world in one form or another, from the Greek ‘peplos’ dress to the long Roman ‘stola’, made of silk or cotton. Relieve ancient traditions and customs with plus size casual dresses from Perfectly Priscilla.

Throughout the Middle Ages (10th – 16th century AD), European women of means had little in the way of apparel selection and were always covered when they left their homes. The sundress was unknown throughout medieval times but in sub-Saharan Africa, commoners and royalty alike wore vibrant wraps of cotton and silk known as kente clothe, which featured bold geometric patterns in bright colors. Some were sleeveless and strapless, held up by an elaborate sash. They were extremely comfortable and practical for work and play. The style made sense in tropical climates and you’ll find many of the plus size sundresses offered here at Perfectly Priscilla Boutique were inspired by a Caribbean theme.

Victorians of the 19th century, both in North America and Europe, couldn’t have imagined wearing an item as revealing as a sundress under any circumstance. Full length dresses, corsets, frills, puffy sleeves and wire crinolines were all part of an elaborate ensemble designed to maintain a woman’s virture, even on a hot day! During this period, Romanticism was an artistic movement that impacted fashion as well, introducing lavish fabrics, lace and sumptuous layers. Women were idealized subjects in art, poetry and music, but it wasn’t until the women’s suffrage movement in the 1920’s that women slowly began to reclaim possession of their own bodies and peel back the layers.

In modern times, the sundress has undergone very little change in form since antiquity but women have returned to its classic look time and again. Popularized in the 60’s by American fashion designers, sundresses have been worn for decades by movie stars, models and celebrities. Simple, flowing, clean lines are made vibrant by bold colorful tones and prints to give the sundress its timeless, classic look. A sundress says elegance and fun, high society, tennis games and country clubs. Almost every woman has at least one in her wardrobe. They don’t go out of style because they’re so practical in hot weather, which makes them a great investment and a must-have for your collection. Check out Perfectly Priscilla’s plus size casual dresses and plus size summer dresses. Purchase your favorites today!

A Girl Named Lilly

It might be tempting to overlook the plus size sundress as too simple, and no one would call it a mind-blowing design but the sundresses’ emergence and popularity can be traced to the bold initiative of an unassuming American housewife. Her story stands as an inspiring example of girl power.

Lilly Pulitzer (1931- 2013), an unlikely heroine, wasn’t always a fashion designer. Born Lilly McKim to an oil heiress, she grew up in New York City among socialites in the 1940’s, but after dropping out of college after only one semester, it didn’t seem like she was on the road to making history.

Lilly settled in Palm Beach, Florida with her husband, an orange grove farmer. Tired of staining her dresses with orange juice at the stand she owned, Lilly created a practical design that could hide the stains. The result, after a few attempts, was a sleeveless cotton shift with a colorful floral print to camouflage all that orange pulp. Lined with lace seam bindings as well, her female customers went ga-ga over the dress and a light bulb went on in her head. She ditched the orange juice stand and by 1959 she was the president of Lilly Pulitzer, Inc.

After folks got a look at Jacqueline Onassis (a former classmate of Lily’s) on the cover of Life Magazine in one of Lilly’s simple designs, the dress became known as a ‘Jacqueline’ and caught on soon after with other social elites. Lily didn’t invent the sundress but her simple collections helped establish a new aesthetic in women’s fashion that continues to this day. You can still find plus size sundresses inspired by Lilly Pulitzer. Perfectly Priscilla sells plus size summer dresses that are colourful and vibrant like the Jacqueline dress. The collection consists of plus size short dresses, plus size dresses with sleeves of varying lengths, and plus size summer dresses without sleeves – similar to the Jacqueline.

Southern Charm and Sophistication

Mention Southern charm and immediately images of a youthful Scarlet O’Hara gazing longingly at the distant sienna horizon come to my mind for most people. For decades, Southern charm and hospitality has impacted American culture and fashion, from literature to photography, film and fashion. Civility, decadence, grace and manners are indeed attributes of the traditional Southern belle as she’s been depicted in novels and movies, but let’s not forget her strength, independence, and courage. From the White House to the orange groves and golden beaches of the turbulent, simmering American south, the Southern belle has left a distinct impression on just about any girl. And while our tastes have moved well beyond brocaded silk corsets, frilled pantalettes and a dainty parasol, a plus size casual dress, sundress or summer dress with simple lines and flowing contours that flatter your shapeliness still exudes the essence of Southern charm. Check out Perfectly Priscilla’s summer dresses for plus size to express your beauty, courage, independence and creative spirit.

At Perfect Priscilla Boutique, our ambition is to give plus size women sundresses that exude the glamour and sophistication of a Southern belle at the height of her success.


Sundresses combine a skirt and blouse look into one seamless form. They can be found in varying lengths, from knee-high, three-quarter length to ankle-length but you’ll be hard pressed to find a full-length sundress proper. There are, however a variety of sleeve options, from plus size dresses with sleeves to plus size dresses without sleeves, there are a variety of beautiful options to suit your needs and preferred styles. Naturally, the loose-fitting and lightweight texture of a sundress makes it the centre piece of any ensemble. Bulky coats, heavy jackets or sweaters should be avoided when you’re wearing one. Jean jackets and light cardigans go well with plus size casual dresses. Accessories like a beautiful silk scarf, tasteful sunglasses, or sunhat can add just the right amount of sophistication and glamour to your image. Choosing the right plus size sundress for you just takes some forethought.

At Perfectly Priscilla Boutique, you’ll find plus size sundresses in a range of classic, elegant styles that are also chic and trendy. If you’re shopping for a plus size sundress to wow people at your next pool party, explore our selection and get inspired. Think about the type of event when considering whether to go bold or restrained, and, above all, go with your gut reaction. A plus size casual dress should make you feel fabulous and beautiful all over. Plus size sundresses are uplifting and put a smile on your face.

Knee-length Sundresses

Knee-length sundresses are the most popular kind. They’re unlined to make them cooler and more lightweight, and are made typically of an acrylic and cotton blend. It’s best to wash them in cold water by hand because they’re so delicate. They cut off just above the knees so if the weather is a little cool, a sheer dress extension is also an option. A pair of booties or ankle strap, open-toe shoes will draw attention to your shapely legs. You want to keep your footwear light but sexy. A tasteful floral print or vibrant monochrome shade (red, violet, green) depends on the occasion. Generally, you want to go monochromatic if the event is semi-formal, or if you just want to keep it simple, while more lively patterns and prints are best for festive outdoor occasions when you feel upbeat and breezy! You’ll have no trouble dancing in a knee-length sundress that falls gracefully around your figure. Pay special attention to the hemline as well. Horizontal lines always capture the eye and subtle detailing in lace or brocaded patterns really add a touch of class. Cascading frills or pleated bottoms that flare out gracefully as you move make will make your movements seem lighter and give you an almost sprite-like aura. Get started now and explore our gallery of plus size short dresses for one that suits you!

Long Sleeve Sundresses

If you’re spending a day on the yacht where there’s a steady cool breeze and temperatures fall after sunset, a long sleeve sundress is a great option. It offers great protection from harmful UV rays and the light fabric breathes, so you won’t be drenched in your own sweat. Bell sleeves are cute and youthful. See if one of our cute bell sleeve sundresses in plus sizes is right for you – right now!

Belted Sundresses

Trimming the appearance of your midriff can be done with a belted sundress. The right belt positioned properly will give your figure an alluring shape, leaving observers with the impression of shapely thighs and hips, hallmarks of feminine sexuality. You want to wear it just above your waistline so that it fits similar to a corset. The curving line from your lower rib to your hips will give the impression of an elongated midriff. A thin black leather belt is best for this effect. Keep it simple. Colorful sashes, tied in a neat bow, are also a great idea for adding some flair. Check out our accessories or browse through our selection of plus size sundresses now!

Shoulder-strap Sundresses

Thin shoulder straps that frame your bust line are a classic feature of the early sundress popularized in the 60’s and you’ll find most stores carry a version of these, along with broader versions. Shoulder-straps are obviously more revealing than sleeves and are perfect for showing off your bronze tan. Thin shoulder-straps paired with fierce black heels exude sex appeal and a carefree attitude. If you’re sporting a shortened coif the broader version leaves the impression of a symmetrical shoulder line framed by your collarbone. Very fetching too! Simple elegant jewelrylike a teardrop pendant or studded earrings can be the icing on the cake. View our selection of sundresses with shoulder-straps and order one today.

High-low Cut Sundress

A diamond shaped hem that rises in the front slightly above the knee, while falling ceremoniously to the ankles in the bank makes the high-low cut a style that stands out on its own. It’s chic, sexy and alluring in all the right ways. You can show off your killer calves and flash a pair of pumps or open-toe heels, even a cute pair of booties in suede or leather. High-low cut sundresses are perfect summer dresses for plus size.

Full-length Sundress

If you’re going for glamorous, knock ‘em dead gorgeous, then a full-length sundress at your next formal outdoor party will definitely have people talking. Designed to flatter your figure from head to toe, the light fabric hangs loosely as it falls, flowing as you move. You’ll look lighter on your feet and feel it too! A tasteful pair of leather gladiator sandals will give you the air of a Greek goddess treading the clouds on her rosy heels at dawn. Heels can be tricky, as the lengthy fabric can get caught when going up or down a flight of stairs so consider carefully where and what you’ll be dong in it before you decide.


It’s easy to go overboard with accessories but a few tasteful choices can elevate your outfit from Lady Gaga level to First Lady status. The great thing about a sundress is that less is better. Keeping it simple with your accessories will keep your stunning sundress the focal point of your ensemble. After all, its flowing and lightweight design is meant to flatter your figure and put you in the spotlight so don’t distract with unnecessary, glaring pieces.


Belts come in so many variations but generally, you don’t want to look like you’re wearing a chastity belt, right? A thin leather belt in just about any color, worn just above the waistline, can elongate your midriff. Wider belts with simple clasps can also be a great choice if you want to add sex appeal to your outfit.


A colorful sash made of silk or satin can be tied in a bow and shifted off-centre, above the pelvis area. Your sash should sit just above your waist to give the appearance of a longer midriff.


Go with open toe, gladiator sandals, booties, or pumps when you’re sporting a sundress. Heavy boots or knee-high is the opposite of easy breezy. The lightweight fabric of a sundress allows for flowing gestures as you move. Walking should be easy and unencumbered. High heels can be a problem if you’re going up or downstairs. And freshly manicured, painted toe nails are a must if you’re going to pull off a sundress with conviction.


Think simple and classic when considering jewelry as part of your sundress outfit. A pendant or thin necklace can be subtle additions. Studs, hoops, or hanging ear rings are all great options. For women with shortened coifs, hanging earrings can give the appearance of a longer neck and studs of any kind are so chic!

To browse our accessory collection, please go to the accessories page. Have fun!


Sundresses have been popular since the 60’s and they’re so versatile that every woman should have at least one in her closet. With so many styles of sundresses to choose from, it’s important to consider carefully the occasion before deciding. Should you go with plus size dresses with sleeves or should you go sleeveless? Three-quarter length sleeves or long-sleeves? High-low cut or knee-high? Open back or plunging V-neck? Here are a few pointers fashion tips that will help you make the right choice.

    1. Formal Occasions

      If you’re attending an outdoor wedding, posh movie premier or outdoor fundraising gala, a knee-high, plus size sundress with a sheer dress extension worn underneath can be ideal. It’s light, breezy and allows you to flaunt your bodacious figure with class. Long sleeves give a more conservative look, while long bell sleeves make you appear youthful. Thin straps are elegant and you’ll want to wear strapped heels to give you that chic, sophisticated appeal. Strong monochrome colors, black, white or shades of gray are ideal.

    2. Semi-Formal Occasions

      Lighter, monochromatic colors or geometric patterns are great choices for a semi-formal occasion like a bachelorette party or housewarming. A bow neckline on your sundress will form a nice outline for your bust and draw the gaze across your shoulders in a horizontal direction, giving your neck an elongated appearance. V-neck lines are ideal for lengthening the neck line too, providing an illusion of depth. Paired with an elegant purse or handbag and a pair of shades and you’ve stepped into Jacqueline Onassis country! To shop our collection of formal wear, go to the special occasion page

    3. Casual Occasions

      When it comes to casual occasions – family gatherings, backyard parties, or a picnic you can’t go wrong with a short-sleeve sundress. Flutter sleeves or wide shoulder straps work just as well as the sleeveless option. For the more daring, a backless sundress in a vibrant floral print adds just the right amount of sex appeal and playfulness without being considered inappropriate around children. Sunglasses and some elegant jewelry are all you need to spruce it up if you want to avoid feeling too ‘matronly’ while you serve everyone your homemade lemonade. Won’t you be the belle of the ball?

    4. Date Night

      Even if you’ve been dating a while, you want to keep your significant other guessing. A black or white knee-high sundress says chic, sexy and classy. Layers aren’t necessary but a thin belt clasped just above your waistline will accentuate your curvaceous hips. Thin shoulder straps will lengthen your body, drawing the eyes vertically up and down rather than across. The V-neck instead of a simple bow neck or square neck is alluring and gives your bosom a symmetrical appearance. Get the right bra to keep your cleavage firmly in place. Blended fabrics with rayon, silk and spandex stretch more easily than cotton or linen and will retain their shape when washed in cold water. You’ll present a flattering figure from any perspective in a dress that still breathes and allows for ease of movement. Make sure your make-up and hair are impeccable to complete the effect. If you must wear sleeves, try an off-the-shoulder short sleeve or lace sleeves. Perfectly Priscilla’s collection has a variety of plus size dresses with sleeves for you to peruse.

    5. Office/Business

      You can absolutely wear a sundress at the office – especially if it’s your office! Bold geometric designs, symmetrical patterns, horizontal lines or swirling pastels can all work to your advantage. Coordinate your outfit with matching bag and shoes. Jewelry should be restrained: go with one signature piece like a bracelet or stunning pair of earrings and resist the urge to overdo it. Leopard prints are not the way to go, but if they are part of your accessories then you can pair them tastefully with a more neutral tone like beige, gray, or olive.

      Of course, this isn’t the gospel of fashion tips for wearing sundresses. These are just a few ideas to help you figure out the most appropriate style. Remember, classic styles with simple lines are a great investment in your wardrobe. They won’t go out of style and you can mix and match with ease.


It’s never been easier to shop for a summer dress in your size. You can forget about clothing swaps to find a dress that’s original, affordable and uniquely suited to your signature style. Trendy summer dresses for full figure women of all shapes and sizes are available right now for you to order and we’ll have it shipped right to your door.

It’s easy to confuse summer dresses with sundresses but there is a difference. Both are made of light fabrics and are ideal for hot climates but a summer dress can be long or shorter in length, while sundresses typically cut off at the knees or slightly above. Bright floral patterns and bold prints are also very common with summer dresses and there’s a broad range of styles.

At Perfectly Priscilla Boutique, we design summer dresses for plus size women exclusively. Classy-chic or bold and sassy styles are available to suit your mood or signature style. Floral prints, monochromatic, or detailed patterns can be found in different colors from sizes 10/12 – 22/24. Browse our selection and choose one for yourself now!

Maxi Summer Dresses

These are full-length dresses, lightweight, versatile and available in so many different prints and styles. They’re great for an informal outdoor event or on the yacht. For more formal occasions, monochromatic, dark colors, or a bold print paired with the right open-toe pumps or flats will instantly have you looking elegant and sophisticated. Perfectly Priscilla Boutique carries a unique selection of plus size maxi dresses exclusively.

Casual Summer Dresses/Beach Dresses

Plus size casual summer dresses are here too! Also known as beach dresses, you’ll find them in both close-fitting and loose-fit styles. Close-fitting beach dresses typically are made of a blend of spandex and rayon or polyester to make them light and stretchable. Tube shaped midriffs, open backs, horizontal lines and thin shoulder straps make them practical casual wear for a day on the beach, at a picnic or a barbeque. Whether you’ll be active or lounging on a lawn chair under a Technicolor umbrella, a beach dress paired with a colorful bracelet or sunhat is always super-chic!

Plus Size Summer Dresses by Body Type

Don’t be fooled by airbrushed, photo-shopped images you see on magazine racks. Healthy, strong, beautiful, active women come in all shapes and sizes. Conventional retailers offer limited space on their shelves and racks for plus size women, but not all summer dresses are created equally. There’s no one-size-fits-all and you deserve a summer dress that suits your body type. Check out these helpful guidelines arranged by the various body types.

Summer Dresses for Tall Plus Size Women

If you’re full-figured and about six-foot-tall, we’ve got you covered at Perfectly Priscilla Boutique. A summer dress with horizontal lines will show off your height in an elegant way while adding breadth. A hemline just above your knee means you can still show off your legs. Try stencil print designs or light pastel colors.

Summer Dresses for Short Plus Size Women

Vertical lines give the impression of elongating the body. A V-neck adds depth to a short frame. Light fabrics with no lining and colorful prints will give you that chic look. Open toe, strapped high heels will add some height but pumps are great too if you want to give your ankles a break.

Summer Dresses for Pear-Shaped Plus Size Women

For curvy women, you could wear a sundress that hangs gracefully from your hips with a hemline that glides as you walk. Try a summer dress with a draping bottom and high-cut front that cuts off just above the knee. Wear a cute little thin leather belt above your waistline or a wider one that clasps easily in the front or back to give you a slightly corseted look.

Summer Dresses for Athletic Plus Size Women

You work hard and you’re proud of your physique! You don’t want to be busting out of your chic summer dress so we say go with thin shoulder straps or off-the-shoulder to showcase your shoulders. Knee-high length is ideal to showcase all the muscle tone in your legs. With a curvaceous body you can dial it down with neutral colors and still look fabulous. A tie-waist summer dress that cuts off at the knees is a sure-win. Go for more close-fitting, lined garments that will glide smoothly over your curves and outline your figure with simple, clean, elegant lines. Symmetry is the key to a sexy but playful, athletic look. Next time you show up courtside at the game or the ballpark, no one will be keeping their eyes on the ball!

Summer Dresses for Apple-shaped Plus Size Women

With an apple shape, your shoulders tend to be broader with narrower hips, the opposite of pear-shaped bodies. Avoid frills and frock-like designs that give the appearance of added layers. They draw attention to your bust and middle. Go with vertical lines when choosing a print or pattern and smaller necklines that will reduce the breadth of your shoulders. Short summer dresses that flare out gracefully will give you a more symmetrical appearance.

Summer Dresses for Banana-shaped Plus Size Women

Also called a straight figure, the banana shape is rather rectangular, giving the appearance of shoulders and hips that are the same in breadth. There’s little contrast between upper and lower body so it’s easy to disappear beneath your clothes. Rather than looking ambivalent, try a summer dress with a vivacious, colorful print or stencil pattern. Neutral tones will make you stand out about as much as a pillar (meaning hardly at all) so if you want to leave an impression, pay attention to the type of neck line as well. Frills, lace, criss-cross shoulder straps or lattice detail around the bust area is sure to make people take notice. Plus size sundresses by Perfectly Priscilla are vibrant and colourful – they are the perfect choice for women with non-curvy bodies.

Summer Dresses for Pregnant Women

Want to take photos in a gorgeous plus size summer dress? Full-length or ankle-length summer dresses in lively floral prints and designs. Unlined fabrics that are lightweight will help keep you cool during an outdoor photoshoot. A simple bow neck line or frilly off-the-shoulder style can give you a youthful appearance, and they allow for practical ease of movement – a must if you are expecting.

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Nabokov - Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov Lolita FOREWORD...

  • SCHOOL University of Bedfordshire
  • TYPE Essay
  • PAGES 419
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Unformatted text preview: Vladimir Nabokov Lolita FOREWORD “Lolita, or the Confession of a White Widowed Male,” such were the two titles under which the writer of the present note received the strange pages it preambulates. “Humbert Humbert,” their author, had died in legal captivity, of coronary thrombosis, on November 16, 1952, a few days before his trial was scheduled to start. His lawyer, my good friend and relation, Clarence Choate Clark, Esq., now of he District of Columbia bar, in asking me to edit the manuscript, based his request on a clause in his client’s will which empowered my eminent cousin to use the discretion in all matters pertaining to the preparation of “Lolita” for print. Mr. Clark’s decision may have been influenced by the fact that the editor of his choice had just been awarded the Poling Prize for a modest work (“Do the Senses make Sense?”) wherein certain morbid states and perversions had been discussed. My task proved simpler than either of us had anticipated. Save for the correction of obvious solecisms and a careful suppression of a few tenacious details that despite “H.H.”‘s own efforts still subsisted in his text as signposts and tombstones (indicative of places or persons that taste would conceal and compassion spare), this remarkable memoir is presented intact. Its author’s bizarre cognomen is his own invention; and, of course, this maskthrough which two hypnotic eyes seem to glowhad to remain unlifted in accordance with its wearer’s wish. While “Haze” only rhymes with the heroine’s real surname, her first name is too closely interwound with the inmost fiber of the book to allow one to alter it; nor (as the reader will perceive for himself) is there any practical necessity to do so. References to “H.H.”‘s crime may be looked up by the inquisitive in the daily papers for September-October 1952; its cause and purpose would have continued to come under my reading lamp. For the benefit of old-fashioned readers who wish to follow the destinies of the “real” people beyond the “true” story, a few details may be given as received from Mr. “Windmuller,” or “Ramsdale,” who desires his identity suppressed so that “the long shadow of this sorry and sordid business” should not reach the community to which he is proud to belong. His daughter, “Louise,” is by now a college sophomore, “Mona Dahl” is a student in Paris. “Rita” has recently married the proprietor of a hotel in Florida. Mrs. “Richard F. Schiller” died in childbed, giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952, in Gray Star, a settlemen in the remotest Northwest. “Vivian Darkbloom” has written a biography, “My Cue,” to be publshed shortly, and critics who have perused the manuscript call it her best book. The caretakers of the various cemeteries involved report that no ghosts walk. Viewed simply as a novel, “Lolita” deals with situations and emotions that would remain exasperatingly vague to the reader had their expression been etiolated by means of platitudinous evasions. True, not a single obscene term is to be found in the whole work; indeed, the robust philistine who is conditioned by modern conventions into accepting without qualms a lavish array of four-letter words in a banal novel, will be quite shocked by their absence here. If, however, for this paradoxical prude’s comfort, an editor attempted to dilute or omit scenes that a certain type of mind might call “aphrodisiac” (see in this respect the monumental decision rendered December 6, 1933, by Hon. John M. Woolsey in regard to another, considerably more outspoken, book), one would have to forego the publication of “Lolita” altogether, since those very scenes that one might inpetly accuse of sensuous existence of their own, are the most strictly functional ones in the development of a tragic tale tending unsweri\vingly to nothing less than a moral apotheosis. The cynic may say that commercial pornography makes the same claim; the learned may counter by asserting that “H.H.”‘s impassioned confession is a tempest in a test tube; that at least 12% of American adult malesa “conservative” estimate according to Dr. Blanche Schwarzmann (verbal communication)enjoy yearly, in one way or another, the special experience “H.H.” describes with such despare; that had our demented diarist gone, in the fatal summer of 1947, to a competent psycho-pathologist, there would have been no disaster; but then, neither would there have been this book. This commentator may be excused for repeating what he has stressed in his own books and lectures, namely that “offensive” is frequently but a synonym for “unusual;” and a great work of art is of course always original, and thus by its very nature should come as a more or less shocking surprise. I have no intention to glorify “H.H.” No doubt, he is horrible, is is abject, he is a shining example of moral leprosy, a mixture of ferocity and jocularity that betrays supreme misery perhaps, but is not conducive to attractiveness. He is ponderously capricious. Many of his casual opinions on the people and scenery of this country are ludicrous. A desperate honesty that throbs through his confession does not absolve him from sins of diabolical cunning. He is abnormal. He is not a gentleman. But how magically his singing violin can conjure up a tendresse, a compassion for Lolita that makes us entranced with the book while abhorring its author! As a case history, “Lolita” will become, no doubt, a classic in psychiatric circles. As a work of art, it transcends its expiatory aspects; and still more important to us than scientific significance and literary worth, is the ethical impact the book should have on the serious reader; for in this poignant personal study there lurks a general lesson; the wayward child, the egotistic mother, the panting maniacthese are not only vivid characters in a unique story: they warn us of dangerous trends; they point out potent evils. “Lolita” should make all of usparents, social workers, educatorsapply ourselves with still greater vigilance and vision to the task of bringing up a better generation in a safer world. John Ray, Jr., Ph.D. Widworth, Mass * PART ONE * 1 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, a certain 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 a 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. 2 I was born in 1910, in Paris. My father was a gentle, easy-going person, a salad of racial genes: a Swiss citizen, of mixed French and Austrian descent, with a dash of the Danube in his veins. I am going to pass around in a minute some lovely, glossy-blue picturepostcards. He owned a luxurious hotel on the Riviera. His father and two grandfathers had sold wine, jewels and silk, respectively. At thirty he married an English girl, daughter of Jerome Dunn, the alpinist, and granddaughter of two Dorset parsons, experts in obscure subjectspaleopedology and Aeolian harps, respectively. My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges. My mother’s elder sister, Sybil, whom a cousin of my father’s had married and then neglected, served in my immediate family as a kind of unpaid governess and housekeeper. Somebody told me later that she had been in love with my father, and that he had lightheartedly taken advantage of it one rainy day and forgotten it by the time the weather cleared. I was extremely fond of her, despite the rigiditythe fatal rigidity of some of her rules. Perhaps she wanted to make of me, in the fullness of time, a better widower than my father. Aunt Sybil had pink-rimmed azure eyes and a waxen complexion. She wrote poetry. She was poetically superstitious. She said she knew she would die soon after my sixteenth birthday, and did. Her husband, a great traveler in perfumes, spent most of his time in America, where eventually he founded a firm and acquired a bit of real estate. I grew, a happy, healthy child in a bright would of illustrated books, clean sand, orange trees, friendly dogs, sea vistas and smiling faces. Around me the splendid Hotel Mirana revolved as a kind of private universe, a whitewashed cosmos within the blue greater one that blazed outside. From the aproned pot-scrubber to the flanneled potentate, everybody liked me, everybody petted me. Elderly American ladies leaning on their canes listed towards me like towers of Pisa. Ruined Russian princesses who could not pay my father, bought me expensive bonbons. He, mon cher petit papa, took me out boating and biking, taught me to swim and dive and water-ski, read to me Don Quixote and Les Miserables, and I adored and respected him and felt glad for him whenever I overheard the servants discuss his various lady-friends, beautiful and kind beings who made much of me and cooed and shed precious tears over my cheerful motherlessness. I attended an English day school a few miles from home, and there I played rackets and fives, and got excellent marks, and was on perfect terms with schoolmates and teachers alike. The only definite sexual events that I can remember as having occurred before my thirteenth birthday (that is, before I first saw my little Annabel) were: a solemn, decorous and purely theoretical talk about pubertal surprises in the rose garden of the school with an American kid, the son of a then celebrated motion-picture actress whom he seldom saw in the three-dimensional world; and some interesting reactions on the part of my organism to certain photographs, pearl and umbra, with infinitely soft partings, in Pichon’s sumptuous Le Beaute Humaine that that I had filched from under a mountain of marble-bound Graphics in the hotel library. Later, in his delightful debonair manner, my father gave me all the information he thought I needed about sex; this was just before sending me, in the autumn of 1923, to a lyce in Lyon (where we were to spend three winters); but alas, in the summer of that year, he was touring Italy with Mme de R. and her daughter, and I had nobody to complain to, nobody to consult. 3 Annabel was, like the writer, of mixed parentage: half-English, half-Dutch, in her case. I remember her features far less distinctly today than I did a few years ago, before I knew Lolita. There are two kinds of visual memory: one when you skillfully recreate an image in the laboratory of your mind, with your eyes open (and then I see Annabel in such general terms as: “honey-colored skin,” “think arms,” “brown bobbed hair,” “long lashes,” “big bright mouth”); and the other when you instantly evoke, with shut eyes, on the dark inner side of your eyelids, the objective, absolutely optical replica of a beloved face, a little ghost in natural colors (and this is how I see Lolita). Let me therefore primly limit myself, in describing Annabel, to saying she was a lovely child a few months my junior. Her parents were old friends of my aunt’s, and as stuffy as she. They had rented a villa not far from Hotel Mirana. Bald brown Mr. Leigh and fat, powdered Mrs. Leigh (born Vanessa van Ness). How I loathed them! At first, Annabel and I talked of peripheral affairs. She kept lifting handfuls of fine sand and letting it pour through her fingers. Our brains were turned the way those of intelligent European preadolescents were in our day and set, and I doubt if much individual genius should be assigned to our interest in the plurality of inhabited worlds, competitive tennis, infinity, solipsism and so on. The softness and fragility of baby animals caused us the same intense pain. She wanted to be a nurse in some famished Asiatic country; I wanted to be a famous spy. 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. After one wild attempt we made to meet at night in her garden (of which more later), the only privacy we were allowed was to be out of earshot but not out of sight on the populous part of the plage. There, on the soft sand, a few feet away from our elders, we would sprawl all morning, in a petrified paroxysm of desire, and take advantage of every blessed quirk in space and time to touch each other: her hand, half-hidden in the sand, would creep toward me, its slender brown fingers sleepwalking nearer and nearer; then, her opalescent knee would start on a long cautious journey; sometimes a chance rampart built by younger children granted us sufficient concealment to graze each other’s salty lips; these incomplete contacts drove our healthy and inexperienced young bodies to such a state of exasperation that not even the cold blue water, under which we still clawed at each other, could bring relief. Among some treasures I lost during the wanderings of my adult years, there was a snapshot taken by my aunt which showed Annabel, her parents and the staid, elderly, lame gentleman, a Dr. Cooper, who that same summer courted my aunt, grouped around a table in a sidewalk cafe. Annabel did not come out well, caught as she was in the act of bending over her chocolat glace, and her thin bare shoulders and the parting in her hair were about all that could be identified (as I remember that picture) amid the sunny blur into which her lost loveliness graded; but I, sitting somewhat apart from the rest, came out with a kind of dramatic conspicuousness: a moody, beetle-browed boy in a dark sport shirt and well-tailored white shorts, his legs crossed, sitting in profile, looking away. That photograph was taken on the last day of our fatal summer and just a few minutes before we made our second and final attempt to thwart fate. Under the flimsiest of pretexts (this was our very last chance, and nothing really mattered) we escaped from the cafe to the beach, and found a desolate stretch of sand, and there, in the violet shadow of some red rocks forming a kind of cave, had a brief session of avid caresses, with somebody’s lost pair of sunglasses for only witness. I was on my knees, and on the point of possessing my darling, when two bearded bathers, the old man of the sea and his brother, came out of the sea with exclamations of ribald encouragement, and four months later she died of typhus in Corfu. 4 I leaf again and again through these miserable memories, and keep asking myself, was it then, in the glitter of that remote summer, that the rift in my life began; or was my excessive desire for that child only the first evidence of an inherent singularity? When I try to analyze my own cravings, motives, actions and so forth, I surrender to a sort of retrospective imagination which feeds the analytic faculty with boundless alternatives and which causes each visualized route to fork and re-fork without end in the maddeningly complex prospect of my past. I am convinced, however, that in a certain magic and fateful way Lolita began with Annabel. I also know that the shock of Annabel’s death consolidated the frustration of that nightmare summer, made of it a permanent obstacle to any further romance throughout the cold years of my youth. The spiritual and the physical had been blended in us with a perfection that must remain incomprehensible to the matter-offact, crude, standard-brained youngsters of today. Long after her death I felt her thoughts floating through mine. Long before we met we had had the same dreams. We compared notes. We found strange affinities. The same June of the same year (1919) a stray canary had fluttered into her house and mine, in two widely separated countries. Oh, Lolita, had you loved me thus! I have reserved for the conclusion of my “Annabel” phase the account of our unsuccessful first tryst. One night, she managed to deceive the vicious vigilance of her family. In a nervous and slender-leaved mimosa grove at the back of their villa we found a perch on the ruins of a low stone wall. Through the darkness and the tender trees we could see the arabesques of lighted windows which, touched up by the colored inks of sensitive memory, appear to me now like playing cardspresumably because a bridge game was keeping the enemy busy. She trembled and twitched as I kissed the corner of her parted lips and the hot lobe of her ear. A cluster of stars palely glowed above us, between the silhouettes of long thin leaves; that vibrant sky seemed as naked as she was under her light frock. I saw her face in the sky, strangely distinct, as if it emitted a faint radiance of its own. Her legs, her lovely live legs, were not too close together, and when my hand located what it sought, a dreamy and eerie expression, half-pleasure, halfpain, came over those childish features. She sat a little higher than I, and whenever in her solitary ecstasy she was led to kiss me, her head would bend with a sleepy, soft, drooping movement that was almost woeful, and her bare knees caught and compressed my wrist, and slackened again; and her quivering mouth, distorted by the acridity of some mysterious potion, with a sibilant intake of breath came near to my face. She would try to relieve the pain of love by first roughly rubbing her dry lips against mine; then my darling would draw away with a nervous toss of her hair, and then again come darkly near and let me feed on her open mouth, while with a generosity that was ready to offer her everything, my heart, my throat, my entrails, I have her to hold in her awkward fist the scepter of my passion. I recall the scent of some kind of toilet powderI believe she stole it from her mother’s Spanish maida sweetish, lowly, musky perfume. It mingled with her own biscuity odor, and my senses were suddenly filled to the brim; a sudden commotion in a nearby bush prevented them from overflowingand as we drew away from each other, and with aching veins attended to what was probably a prowling cat, there came from the house her mother’s voice calling her, with a rising frantic noteand Dr. Cooper ponderously limped out into the garden. But that mimosa grovethe haze of stars, the tingle, the flame, the honey-dew, and the ache remained with me, and that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever sinceuntil at last, twenty-four years later, I broke her spell by incarnating her in another. 5 The days of my youth, as I look back on them, seem to fly away from me in a flurry of pale repetitive scraps like those morning snow storms of used tissue paper that a train passenger sees whirling in the wake of the observation car. In my sanitary relations with women I was practical, ironical and brisk. While a college student, in London and Paris, paid ladies sufficed me. My studies were meticulous and intense, although not particularly fruitful. At first, I planned to take a degree in psychiatry and many manqu talents do; but I was even more manqu than that; a peculiar exhaustion, I am so oppressed, doctor, set in; and I switched to English literature, where so many frustrated poets end as pipe-smoking teachers in tweeds. Paris suited me. I discussed Soviet movies with expatriates. I sat with uranists in the Deux Magots. I published tortuous essays in obscure journals. I composed pastiches: ...Frulen von Kulp may turn, her hand upon the door; I will not follow her. Nor Fresca. Nor that Gull. A paper of mine entitled “The Proustian theme in a letter from Keats to Benjamin Bailey” was chuckled over by the six or seven scholars who read it. I launched upon an “Histoire abregee de la poesie anglaise” for a prominent publishing firm, and then started to compile that manual of French literature for English-speaking students (with comparisons drawn from English writers) which was to occupy me throughout the fortiesand the last volume of which was almost ready for press by the time of my arrest. I found a jobteaching English to a group of adults in Auteuil. Then a school for boys employed me for a couple of winters. Now and then I took advantage of the acquaintances I had formed among social workers and psychotherapists to visit in their company various institutions, such as orphanages and reform schools, where pale pubescent girls with matted eyelashes could be stared at in perfect impunity remindful of that granted one in dreams. Now I wish to introduce the following idea. Between the age limits of nine and fourteen there occur maidens who, to certain bewitched travelers, twice or many times older than they, reveal their true nature which is not human, but nymphic (that is, demoniac); and these chosen creatures I propose to designate as “nymphets.” It will be marked that I substitute time terms for spatial ones. In fact, I would have the reader see “nine” and “fourteen” as the boundariesthe mirrory beaches and rosy rocksof an enchanted island haunted by those nymphets of mine and surrounded by a vast, misty sea. Between those age limits, are all girl-children nymphets? Of course not. Otherwise, we who are in the know, we lone voyagers, we nympholepts, would have long gone insane. Neither are good looks any criterion; and vulgarity, or at least what a given community terms so, does not necessarily impair certain mysterious characteristics, the fey grace, the elusive, shifty, soul-shattering, insidious charm that separates the nymphet from such coevals of hers as are incomparably more dependent on the spatial world of synchronous phenomena than on that intangible island of entranced time where Lolita plays with her likes. Within the same age limits the number of true nymphets is trickingly inferior to that of provisionally plain, or just nice, or “cute,” or even “sweet” and “attractive,” ordinary, plumpish, formless, cold-skinned, essentially human little girls, with tummies and pigtails, who may or may not turn into adults of great beauty (look at the ugly dumplings in black stockings and white hats that are metamorphosed into stunning stars of the screen). A normal man given a group photograph of school girls or Girl Scouts and asked to point out the comeliest one will not necessarily choose the nymphet among them. You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh, how you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signsthe slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limb, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of tenderness forbid me to tabulatethe little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power. Furthermore, since the idea of time plays such a magic part in the matter, the student should not be surprised to learn that there must be a gap of several years, never less than ten I should say, generally thirty or forty, and as many as ninety in a few known cases, between maiden and man to enable the latter to come under a nymphet’s spell. It is a question of focal adjustment, of a certain distance that the inner eye thrills to surmount, and a certain contrast that the mind perceives with a gasp of perverse delight. When I was a child and she was a child, my little Annabel was no nymphet to me; I was her equal, a faunlet in my own right, on that same enchanted island of time; but today, in September 1952, after twenty-nine years have elapsed, I think I can distinguish in her the initial fateful elf in my life. We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives. I was a strong lad and survived; but the poison was in the wound, and the wound remained ever open, and soon I found myself maturing amid a civilization which allows a man of twenty-five to court a girl of sixteen but not a girl of twelve. No wonder, then, that my adult life during the European period of my existence proved monstrously twofold. Overtly, I had so-called normal relationships with a number of terrestrial women having pumpkins or pears for breasts; inly, I was consumed by a hell furnace of localized lust for every passing nymphet whom as a law-abiding poltroon I never dared approach. The human females I was allowed to wield were but palliative agents. I am ready to believe that the sensations I derived from natural fornication were much the same as those known to normal big males consorting with their normal big mates in that routine rhythm which shakes the world. The trouble was that those gentlemen had not, and I had, caught glimpses of an incomparably more poignant bliss. The dimmest of my pollutive dreams was a thousand times more dazzling than all the adultery the most virile writer of genius or the most talented impotent might imagine. My world was split. I was aware of not one but two sexes, neither of which was mine; both would be termed female by the anatomist. But to me, through the prism of my senses, “they were as different as mist and mast.” All this I rationalize now. In my twenties and early thirties, I did not understand my throes quite so clearly. While my body knew what it craved for, my mind rejected my body’s every plea. One moment I was ashamed and frightened, another recklessly optimistic. Taboos strangulated me. Psychoanalysts wooed me with pseudoliberations of pseudolibidoes. The fact that to me the only object of amorous tremor were sisters of Annabel’s, her handmaids and girl-pages, appeared to me at times as a forerunner of insanity. At other times I would tell myself that it was all a question of attitude, that there was really nothing wrong in being moved to distraction by girl-children. Let me remind my reader that in England, with the passage of the Children and Young Person Act in 1933, the term “girl-child” is defined as “a girl who is over eight but under fourteen years” (after that, from fourteen to seventeen, the statutory definition is “young person”). In Massachusetts, U.S., on the other hand, a “wayward child” is, technically, one “between seven and seventeen years of age” (who, moreover, habitually associates with vicious or immoral persons). Hugh Broughton, a writer of controversy in the reign of James the First, has proved that Rahab was a harlot at ten years of age. This is all very interesting, and I daresay you see me already frothing at the mouth in a fit; but no, I am not; I am just winking happy thoughts into a little tiddle cup. Here are some more pictures. Here is Virgil who could the nymphet sing in a single tone, but probably preferred a lad’s perineum. Here are two of King Akhnaten’s and Queen Nefertiti’s pre-nubile Nile daughters (that royal couple had a litter of six), wearing nothing but many necklaces of bright beads, relaxed on cushions, intact after three thousand years, with their soft brown puppybodies, cropped hair and long ebony eyes. Here are some brides of ten compelled to seat themselves on the fascinum, the virile ivory in the temples of classical scholarship. Marriage and cohabitation before the age of puberty are still not uncommon in certain East Indian provinces. Lepcha old men of eighty copulate with girls of eight, and nobody minds. After all, Dante fell madly in love with Beatrice when she was nine, a sparkling girleen, painted and lovely, and bejeweled, in a crimson frock, and this was in 1274, in Florence, at a private feast in the merry month of May. And when Petrarch fell madly in love with his Laureen, she was a fair-haired nymphet of twelve running in the wind, in the pollen and dust, a flower in flight, in the beautiful plain as descried from the hills of Vaucluse. But let us be prim and civilized. Humbert Humbert tried hard to be good. Really and truly, he id. He had the utmost respect for ordinary children, with their purity and vulnerability, and under no circumstances would he have interfered with the innocence of a child, if there was the least risk of a row. But how his heart beat when, among the innocent throng, he espied a demon child, “enfant charmante et fourbe,” dim eyes, bright lips, ten years in jail if you only show her you are looking at her. So life went. Humbert was perfectly capable of intercourse with Eve, but it was Lilith he longed for. The bud-stage of breast development appears early (10.7 years) in the sequence of somatic changes accompanying pubescence. And the next maturational item available is the first appearance of pigmented pubic hair (11.2 years). My little cup brims with tiddles. A shipwreck. An atoll. Alone with a drowned passenger’s shivering child. Darling, this is only a game! How marvelous were my fancied adventures as I sat on a hard park bench pretending to be immersed in a trembling book. Around the quiet scholar, nymphets played freely, as if he were a familiar statue or part of an old tree’s shadow and sheen. Once a perfect little beauty in a tartan frock, with a clatter put her heavily armed foot near me upon the bench to dip her slim bare arms into me and righten the strap of her roller skate, and I dissolved in the sun, with my book for fig leaf, as her auburn ringlets fell all over her skinned knee, and the shadow of leaves I shared pulsated and melted on her radiant limb next to my chameloenic cheek. Another time a redhaired school girl hung over me in the metro, and a revelation of axillary russet I obtained remained in my blood for weeks. I could list a great number of these one-sided diminutive romances. Some of them ended in a rich flavor of hell. It happened for instance that from my balcony I would notice a lighted window across the street and what looked like a nymphet in the act of undressing before a co-operative mirror. Thus isolated, thus removed, the vision acquired an especially keen charm that made me race with all speed toward my lone gratification. But abruptly, fiendishly, the tender pattern of nudity I had adored would be transformed into the disgusting lamp-lit bare arm of a man in his underclothes reading his paper by the open window in the hot, damp, hopeless summer night. Rope-skipping, hopscotch. That old woman in black who sat down next to me on my bench, on my rack of joy (a nymphet was groping under me for a lost marble), and asked if I had stomachache, the insolent hag. Ah, leave me alone in my pubescent park, in my mossy garden. Let them play around me forever. Never grow up. 6 A propos: I have often wondered what became of those nymphets later? In this wrought-iron would of criss-cross cause and effect, could it be that the hidden throb I stole from them did not affect their future? I had possessed herand she never knew it. All right. But would it not tell sometime later? Had I not somehow tampered with her fate by involving her image in my voluptas? Oh, it was, and remains, a source of great and terrible wonder. I learned, maddening, however, what thin-armed they looked nymphets, when like, they those grew lovely, up. I remember walking along an animated street on a gray spring afternoon somewhere near the Madeleine. A short slim girl passed me at a rapid, high-heeled, tripping step, we glanced back at the same moment, she stopped and I accosted her. She came hardly up to my chest hair and had the kind of dimpled round little face French girls so often have, and I liked her long lashes and tightfitting tailored dress sheathing in pearl-gray her young body which still retainedand that was the nymphic echo, the chill of delight, the leap in my loinsa childish something mingling with the professional fretillement of her small agile rump. I asked her price, and she promptly replied with melodious silvery precision (a bird, a very bird!) “Cent.” I tried to haggle but she saw the awful lone longing in my lowered eyes, directed so far down at her round forehead and rudimentary hat (a band, a posy); and with one beat of her lashes: “Tant pis,” she said, and made as if to move away. Perhaps only three years earlier I might have seen her coming home from school! That evocation settled the matter. She led me up the usual steep stairs, with the usual bell clearing the way for the monsieur who might not care to meet another monsieur, on the mournful climb to the abject room, all bed and bidet. As usual, she asked at once for her petit cadeau, and as usual I asked her name (Monique) and her age (eighteen). I was pretty well acquainted with the banal way of streetwalkers. They all answer “dix-huit”a trim twitter, a note of finality and wistful deceit which they emit up to ten times per day, the poor little creatures. But in Monique’s case there could be no doubt she was, if anything, adding one or two years to her age. This I deduced from many details of her compact, neat, curiously immature body. Having shed her clothes with fascinating rapidity, she stood for a moment partly wrapped in the dingy gauze of the window curtain listening with infantile pleasure, as pat as pat could be, to an organ-grinder in the dust-brimming courtyard below. When I examined her small hands and drew her attention to their grubby fingernails, she said with a naive frown “Oui, ce n’est pas bien,” and went to the wash-basin, but I said it did not matter, did not matter at all. With her brown bobbed hair, luminous gray eyes and pale skin, she looked perfectly charming. Her hips were no bigger than those of a squatting lad; in fact, I do not hesitate to say (and indeed this is the reason why I linger gratefully in that gauze-gray room of memory with little Monique) that among the eighty or so grues I had had operate upon me, she was the only one that gave me a pang of genuine pleasure. “Il etait malin, celui qui a invente ce truc-la,” she commented amiably, and got back into her clothes with the same high-style speed. I asked for another, more elaborate, assignment later the same evening, and she said she would meet me at the corner cafe at nine, and swore she had never pose un lapin in all her young life. We returned to the same room, and I could not help saying how very pretty she was to which she answered demurely: “Tu es bien gentil de dire ca” and then, noticing what I noticed too in the mirror reflecting our small Edenthe dreadful grimace of clenchedteeth tenderness that distorted my mouthdutiful little Monique (oh, she had been a nymphet, all right!) wanted to know if she should remove the layer of red from her lips avant qu’on se couche in case I planned to kiss her. Of course, I planned it. I let myself go with her more completely than I had with any young lady before, and my last vision that night of long-lashed Monique is touched up with a gaiety that I find seldom associated with any event in my humiliating, sordid, taciturn love life. She looked tremendously pleased with the bonus of fifty I gave her as she trotted out into the April night drizzle with Humbert Humbert lumbering in her narrow wake. Stopping before a window display she said with great gusto: “Je vais m’acheter des bas!” and never may I forget the way her Parisian childish lips exploded on “bas,” pronouncing it with an appetite that all but changed the “a” into a brief buoyant bursting “o” as in “bot”. I had a date with her next day at 2.15 P.M. in my own rooms, but it was less successful, she seemed to have grown less juvenile, more of a woman overnight. A cold I caught from her led me to cancel a fourth assignment, nor was I sorry to break an emotional series that threatened to burden me with heart-rending fantasies and peter out in dull disappointment. So let her remain, sleek, slender Monique, as she was for a minute or two: a delinquent nymphet shining through the matter-of-fact young whore. My brief acquaintance with her started a train of thought that may seem pretty obvious to the reader who knows the ropes. An advertisement in a lewd magazine landed me, one brave day, in the office of a Mlle Edith who began by offering me to choose a kindred soul from a collection of rather formal photographs in a rather soiled album (“Regardez-moi cette belle brune!”. When I pushed the album away and somehow managed to blurt out my criminal craving, she looked as if about to show me the door; however, after asking me what price I was prepared to disburse, she condescended to put me in touch with a person qui pourrait arranger la chose. Next day, an asthmatic woman, coarsely painted, garrulous, garlicky, with an almost farcical Provenal accent and a black mustache above a purple lip, took me to what was apparently her own domicile, and there, after explosively kissing the bunched tips of her fat fingers to signify the delectable rosebud quality of her merchandise, she theatrically drew aside a curtain to reveal what I judged was that part of the room where a large and unfastidious family usually slept. It was now empty save for a monstrously plump, sallow, repulsively plain girl of at least fifteen with red-ribboned thick black braids who sat on a chair perfunctorily nursing a bald doll. When I shook my head and tried to shuffle out of the trap, the woman, talking fast, began removing the dingy woolen jersey from the young giantess’ torso; then, seeing my determination to leave, she demanded son argent. A door at the end of the room was opened, and two men who had been dining in the kitchen joined in the squabble. They were misshapen, bare-necked, very swarthy and one of them wore dark glasses. A small boy and a begrimed, bowlegged toddler lurked behind them. With the insolent logic of a nightmare, the enraged procuress, indicating the man in glasses, said he had served in the police, lui, so that I had better do as I was told. I went up to Mariefor that was her stellar namewho by then had quietly transferred her heavy haunches to a stool at the kitchen table and resumed her interrupted soup while the toddler picked up the doll. With a surge of pity dramatizing my idiotic gesture, I thrust a banknote into her indifferent hand. She surrendered my gift to the ex-detective, whereupon I was suffered to leave. 7 I do not know if the pimp’s album may not have beeen another link in the daisy-chain; but soon after, for my own safety, I decided to marry. It occurred to me that regular hours, homecooked meals, all the conventions of marriage, the prophylactic routine of its bedroom activities and, who knows, the eventual flowering of certain moral values, of certain spiritual substitutes, might help me, if not to purge myself of my degrading and dangerous desires, at least to keep them under pacific control. A little money that had come my way after my father’s death (nothing very grandthe Mirana had been sold long before), in addition to my striking if somewhat brutal good looks, allowed me to enter upon my quest with equanimity. After considerable deliberation, my choice fell on the daughter of a Polish doctor: the good man happened to be treating me for spells of dizziness and tachycardia. We played chess; his daughter watched me from behind her easel, and inserted eyes or knuckles borrowed from me into the cubistic trash that accomplished misses then painted instead of lilacs and lambs. Let me repeat with quiet force: I was, and still am, despite mes malheurs, an exceptionally handsome male; slow-moving, tall, with soft dark hair and a gloomy but all the more seductive cast of demeanor. Exceptional virility often reflects in the subject’s displayable features a sullen and congested something that pertains to what he has to conceal. And this was my case. Well did I know, alas, that I could obtain at the snap of my fingers any adult female I chose; in fact, it had become quite a habit with me of not being too attentive to women lest they come toppling, bloodripe, into my cold lap. Had I been a francais moyen with a taste for flashy ladies, I might have easily found, among the many crazed beauties that lashed my grim rock, creatures far more fascinating than Valeria. My choice, however, was prompted by considerations whose essence was, as I realized too late, a piteous compromise. All of which goes to show how dreadfully stupid poor Humbert always was in matters of sex. 8 Although I told myself I was looking merely for a soothing presence, a glorified pot-au-feu, an animated merkin, what really attracted me to Valeria was the imitation she gave of a little girl. She gave it not because she had divined something about me; it was just her styleand I fell for it. Actually, she was at least in her late twenties (I never established her exact age for even her passport lied) and had mislaid her virginity under circumstances that changed with her reminiscent moods. I, on my part, was as naive as only a pervert can be. She looked fluffy and frolicsome, dressed a la gamine, showed a generous amount of smooth leg, knew how to stress the white of a bare instep by the black of a velvet slipper, and pouted, and dimpled, and romped, and dirndled, and shook her short curly blond hair in the cutest and tritest fashion imaginable. After a brief ceremony at the mairie, I tool her to the new apartment I had rented and, somewhat to her surprise, had her wear, before I touched her, a girl’s plain nightshirt that I had managed to filch from the linen closet of an orphanage. I derived some fun from that nuptial night and had the idiot in hysterics by sunrise. But reality soon asserted itself. The bleached curl revealed its melanic root; the down turned to prickles on a shaved shin; the mobile moist mouth, no matter how I stuffed it with love, disclosed ignominiously its resemblance to the corresponding part in a treasured portrait of her toadlike dead mama; and presently, instead of a pale little gutter girl, Humbert Humbert had on his hands a large, puffy, short-legged, big-breasted and practically brainless baba. This state of affairs lasted from 1935 to 1939. Her only asset was a muted nature which did help to produce an odd sense of comfort in our small squalid flat: two rooms, a hazy view in one window, a brick wall in the other, a tiny kitchen, a shoe-shaped bath tub, within which I felt like Marat but with no white-necked maiden to stab me. We had quite a few cozy evenings together, she deep in her Paris-Soir, I working at a rickety table. We went to movies, bicycle races and boxing matches. I appealed to her stale flesh very seldom, only in cases of great urgency and despair. The grocer opposite had a little daughter whose shadow drove me mad; but with Valeria’s help I did find after all some legal outlets to my fantastic predicament. As to cooking, we tacitly dismissed the pot-au-feu and had most of our meals at a crowded place in rue Bonaparte where there were wine stains on the table cloth and a good deal of foreign babble. And next door, an art dealer displayed in his cluttered window a splendid, flamboyant, green, red, golden and inky blue, ancient American estampea locomotive with a gigantic smokestack, great baroque lamps and a tremendous cowcatcher, hauling its mauve coaches through the stormy prairie night and mixing a lot of spark-studded black smoke with the furry thunder clouds. These burst. In the summer of 1939 mon oncle d’Amrique died bequeathing me an annual income of a few thousand dollars on condition I came to live in the States and showed some interest in his business. This prospect was most welcome to me. I felt my life needed a shake-up. There was another thing, too: moth holes had appeared in the plush of matrimonial comfort. During the last weeks I had kept noticing that my fat Valeria was not her usual self; had acquired a queer restlessness; even showed something like irritation at times, which was quite out of keeping with the stock character she was supposed to impersonate. When I informed her we were shortly to sail for New York, she looked distressed and bewildered. There were some tedious difficulties with her papers. She had a Nansen, or better say Nonsense, passport which for some reason a share in her husband’s solid Swiss citizenship could not easily transcend; and I decided it was the necessity of queuing in the prfecture, and other formalities, that had made her so listless, despite my patiently describing to her America, the country of rosy children and great trees, where life would be such an improvement on dull dingy Paris. We were coming out of some office building one morning, with her papers almost in order, when Valeria, as she waddled by my side, began to shake her poodle head vigorously without saying a word. I let her go on for a while and then asked if she thought she had something inside. She answered (I translate from her French which was, I imagine, a translation in its turn of some Slavic platitude): “There is another man in my life.” Now, these are ugly words for a husband to hear. They dazed me, I confess. To beat her up in the street, there and then, as an honest vulgarian might have done, was not feasible. Years of secret sufferings had taught me superhuman self-control. So I ushered her into a taxi which had been invitingly creeping along the curb for some time, and in this comparative privacy I quietly suggested she comment her wild talk. A mounting fury was suffocating menot because I had any particular fondness for that figure of fun, Mme Humbert, but because matters of legal and illegal conjunction were for me alone to decide, and here she was, Valeria, the comedy wife, brazenly preparing to dispose in her own way of my comfort and fate. I demanded her lover’s name. I repeated my question; but she kept up a burlesque babble, discoursing on her unhappiness with me and announcing plans for an immediate divorce. “Mais qui est-ce?” I shouted at last, striking her on the knee with my fist; and she, without even wincing, stared at me as if the answer were too simple for words, then gave a quick shrug and pointed at the thick neck of the taxi driver. He pulled up at a small caf and introduced himself. I do not remember his ridiculous name but after all those years I still see him quite clearlya stocky White Russian ex-colonel with a bushy mustache and a crew cut; there were thousands of them plying that fool’s trade in Paris. We sat down at a table; the Tsarist ordered wine, and Valeria, after applying a wet napkin to her knee, went on talkinginto me rather than to me; she poured words into this dignified receptacle with a volubility I had never suspected she had in her. And every now and then she would volley a burst of Slavic at her stolid lover. The situation was preposterous and became even more so when the taxi-colonel, stopping Valeria with a possessive smile, began to unfold his views and plans. With an atrocious accent to his careful French, he delineated the world of love and work into which he proposed to enter hand in hand with his child-wife Valeria. She by now was preening herself, between him and me, rouging her pursed lips, tripling her chin to pick at her blouse-bosom and so forth, and he spoke of her as if she were absent, and also as if she were a kind of little ward that was in the act of being transferred, for her own good, from one wise guardian to another even wiser one; and although my helpless wrath may have exaggerated and disfigured certain impressions, I can swear that he actually consulted me on such things as her diet, her periods, her wardrobe and the books she had read or should read. “I think,”—he said, “She will like Jean Christophe?” Oh, he was quite a scholar, Mr. Taxovich. I put an end to this gibberish by suggesting Valeria pack up her few belongings immediately, upon which the platitudinous colonel gallantly offered to carry them into the car. Reverting to his professional state, he drove the Humberts to their residence and all the way Valeria talked, and Humbert the Terrible deliberated with Humbert the Small whether Humbert Humbert should kill her or her lover, or both, or neither. I remember once handling an automatic belonging to a fellow student, in the days (I have not spoken of them, I think, but never mind) when I toyed with the idea of enjoying his little sister, a most diaphanous nymphet with a black hair bow, and then shooting myself. I now wondered if Valechka (as the colonel called her) was really worth shooting, or strangling, or drowning. She had very vulnerable legs, and I decided I would limit myself to hurting her very horribly as soon as we were alone. But we never were. Valechkaby now shedding torrents of tears tinged with the mess of her rainbow make-up,started to fill anyhow a trunk, and two suitcases, and a bursting carton, and visions of putting on my mountain boots and taking a running kick at her rump were of course impossible to put into execution with the cursed colonel hovering around all the time. I cannot say he behaved insolently or anything like that; on the contrary, he displayed, as a small sideshow in the theatricals I had been inveigled in, a discreet old-world civility, punctuating his movements with all sorts of mispronounced apologies (j’ai demande pardonneexcuse meest-ce que j’ai puismay Iand so forth), and turning away tactfully when Valechka took down with a flourish her pink panties from the clothesline above the tub; but he seemed to be all over the place at once, le gredin, agreeing his frame with the anatomy of the flat, reading in my chair my newspaper, untying a knotted string, rolling a cigarette, counting the teaspoons, visiting the bathroom, helping his moll to wrap up the electric fan her father had given her, and carrying streetward her luggage. I sat with arms folded, one hip on the window sill, dying of hate and boredom. At last both were out of the quivering apartmentthe vibration of the door I had slammed after them still rang in my every nerve, a poor substitute for the backhand slap with which I ought to have hit her across the cheekbone according to the rules of the movies. Clumsily playing my part, I stomped to the bathroom to check if they had taken my English toilet water; they had not; but I noticed with a spasm of fierce disgust that the former Counselor of the Tsar, after thoroughly easing his bladder, had not flushed the toilet. That solemn pool of alien urine with a soggy, tawny cigarette butt disintegrating in it struck me as a crowning insult, and I wildly looked around for a weapon. Actually I daresay it was nothing but middle-class Russian courtesy (with an oriental tang, perhaps) that had prompted the good colonel (Maximovich! his name suddenly taxies back to me), a very formal person as they all are, to muffle his private need in decorous silence so as not to underscore the small size of his host’s domicile with the rush of a gross cascade on top of his own hushed trickle. But this did not enter my mind at the moment, as groaning with rage I ransacked the kitchen for something better than a broom. Then, canceling my search, I dashed out of the house with the heroic decision of attacking him barefisted; despite my natural vigor, I am no pugilist, while the short but broad-shouldered Maximovich seemed made of pig iron. The void of the street, revealing nothing of my wife’s departure except a rhinestone button that she had dropped in the mud after preserving it for three unnecessary years in a broken box, may have spared me a bloody nose. But no matter. I had my little revenge in due time. A man from Pasadena told me one day that Mrs. Maximovich ne Zborovski had died in childbirth around 1945; the couple had somehow got over to California and had been used there, for an excellent salary, in a year-long experiment conducted by a distinguished American ethnologist. The experiment dealt with human and racial reactions to a diet of bananas and dates in a constant position on all fours. My informant, a doctor, swore he had seen with his own eyes obese Valechka and her colonel, by then gray-haired and also quite corpulent, diligently crawling about the well-swept floors of a brightly lit set of rooms (fruit in one, water in another, mats in a third and so on) in the company of several other hired quadrupeds, selected from indigent and helpless groups. I tried to find the results of these tests in the Review of Anthropology; but they appear not to have been published yet. These scientific products take of course some time to fructuate. I hope they will be illustrated with photographs when they do get printed, although it is not very likely that a prison library will harbor such erudite works. The one to which I am restricted these days, despite my lawyer’s favors, is a good example of the inane eclecticism governing the selection of books in prison libraries. They have the Bible, of course, and Dickens (an ancient set, N.Y., G.W. Dillingham, Publisher, MDCCCLXXXVII); and the Children’s Encyclopedia (with some nice photographs of sunshine-haired Girl Scouts in shorts), and A Murder Is Announced by Agatha Christie; but they also have such coruscating trifles as A vagabond in Italy by Percy Elphinstone, author of Venice Revisited, Boston, 1868, and a comparatively recent (1946) Who’s Who in the Limelightactors, producers, playwrights, and shots of static scenes. In looking through the latter volume, I was treated last night to one of those dazzling coincidences that logicians loathe and poets love. I transcribe most of the page: Pym, Roland. Born in Lundy, Mass., 1922. Received stage training at Elsinore Playhouse, Derby, N.Y. Made debut in Sunburst. Among his many appearances are Two Blocks from Here, The Girl in Green, Scrambled Husbands, The Strange Mushroom, Touch and Go, John Lovely, I Was Dreaming of You. Quilty, Clare, American dramatist. Born in Ocean City, N.J., 1911. Educated at Columbia University. Started on a commercial career but turned to playwriting. Author of The Little Nymph, The Lady Who Loved Lightning (in collaboration with Vivian Darkbloom), Dark Age, The strange Mushroom, Fatherly Love, and others. His many plays for children are notable. Little Nymph (1940) traveled 14,000 miles and played 280 performances on the road during the winter before ending in New York. Hobbies: fast cars, photography, pets. Quine, Dolores. Born in 1882, in Dayton, Ohio. Studied for stage at American Academy. First played in Ottawa in 1900. Made New York debut in 1904 in Never Talk to Strangers. Has disappeared since in [a list of some thirty plays follows]. How the look of my dear love’s name even affixed to some old hag of an actress, still makes me rock with helpless pain! Perhaps, she might have been an actress too. Born 1935. Appeared (I notice the slip of my pen in the preceding paragraph, but please do not correct it, Clarence) in The Murdered Playwright. Quine the Swine. Guilty of killing Quilty. Oh, my Lolita, I have only words to play with! 9 Divorce proceedings delayed my voyage, and the gloom of yet another World War had settled upon the globe when, after a winter of ennui and pneumonia in Portugal, I at last reached the States. In New York I eagerly accepted the soft job fate offered me: it consisted mainly of thinking up and editing perfume ads. I welcomed its desultory character and pseudoliterary aspects, attending to it whenever I had nothing better to do. On the other hand, I was urged by a war-time university in New York to complete my comparative history of French literature for English- speaking students. The first volume took me a couple of years during which I put in seldom less than fifteen hours of work daily. As I look back on those days, I see them divided tidily into ample light and narrow shade: the light pertaining to the solace of research in palatial libraries, the shade to my excruciating desires and insomnias of which enough has been said. Knowing me by now, the reader can easily imagine how dusty and hot I got, trying to catch a glimpse of nymphets (alas, always remote) playing in Central Park, and how repulsed I was by the glitter of deodorized career girls that a gay dog in one of the offices kept unloading upon me. Let us skip all that. A dreadful breakdown sent me to a sanatorium for more than a year; I went back to my workonly to be hospitalized again. Robust outdoor life seemed to promise me some relief. One of my favorite doctors, a charming cynical chap with a little brown beard, had a brother, and this brother was about to lead an expedition into arctic Canada. I was attached to it as a “recorder of psychic reactions.” With two young botanists and an old carpenter I shared now and then (never very successfully) the favors of one of our nutritionists, a Dr. Anita Johnsonwho was soon flown back, I am glad to say. I had little notion of what object the expedition was pursuing. Judging by the number of meteorologists upon it, we may have been tracking to its lair (somewhere on Prince of Wales’ Island, I understand) the wandering and wobbly north magnetic pole. One group, jointly with the Canadians, established a weather station on Pierre Point in Melville Sound. Another group, equally misguided, collected plankton. A third studied tuberculosis in the tundra. Bert, a film photographeran insecure fellow with whom at one time I was made to partake in a good deal of menial work (he, too, had some psychic troubles)maintained that the big men on our team, the real leaders we never saw, were mainly engaged in checking the influence of climatic amelioration on the coats of the arctic fox. We lived in prefabricated timber cabins amid a Pre-Cambrian world of granite. We had heaps of suppliesthe Reader’s Digest, an ice cream mixer, chemical toilets, paper caps for Christmas. My health improved wonderfully in spite or because of all the fantastic blankness and boredom. Surrounded by such dejected vegetation as willow scrub and lichens; permeated, and, I suppose, cleansed by a whistling gale; seated on a boulder under a completely translucent sky (through which, however, nothing of importance showed), I felt curiously aloof from my own self. No temptations maddened me. The plump, glossy little Eskimo girls with their fish smell, hideous raven hair and guinea pig faces, evoked even less desire in me than Dr. Johnson had. Nymphets do not occur in polar regions. I left my betters the task of analyzing glacial drifts, drumlins, and gremlins, and kremlins, and for a time tried to jot down what I fondly thought were “reactions” (I noticed, for instance, that dreams under the midnight sun tended to be highly colored, and this my friend the photographer confirmed). I was also supposed to quiz my various companions on a number of important matters, such as nostalgia, fear of unknown animals, foodfantasies, nocturnal emissions, hobbies, choice of radio programs, changes in outlook and so forth. Everybody got so fed up with this that I soon dropped the project completely, and only toward the end of my twenty months of cold labor (as one of the botanists jocosely put it) concocted a perfectly spurious and very racy report that the reader will find published in he Annals of Adult Psychophysics for 1945 or 1946, as well as in the issue of Arctic Explorations devoted to that particular expedition; which, in conclusion, was not really concerned with Victoria Island copper or anything like that, as I learned later from my genial doctor; for the nature of its real purpose was what is termed “hush-hush,” and so let me add merely that whatever it was, that purpose was admirably achieved. The reader will regret to learn that soon after my return to civilization I had another bout with insanity (if to melancholia and a sense of insufferable oppression that cruel term must be applied). I owe my complete restoration to a discovery I made while being treated at that particular very expensive sanatorium. I discovered there was an endless source of robust enjoyment in trifling with psychiatrists: cunningly leading them on; never letting them see that you know all the tricks of the trade; inventing for them elaborate dreams, pure classics in style (which make them, the dream-extortionists, dream and wake up shrieking); teasing them with fake “primal scenes”; and never allowing them the slightest glimpse of one’s real sexual predicament. By bribing a nurse I won access to some files and discovered, with glee, cards calling me “potentially homosexual” and “totally impotent.” The sport was so excellent, its resultsin my caseso ruddy that I stayed on for a whole month after I was quite well (sleeping admirably and eating like a schoolgirl). And then I added another week just for the pleasure of taking on a powerful newcomer, a displaced (and, surely, deranged) celebrity, known for his knack of making patients believe they had witnessed their own conception. 10 Upon signing out, I cast around for some place in the New England countryside or sleepy small town (elms, white church) where I could spend a studious summer subsisting on a compact boxful of notes I had accumulated and bathing in some nearby lake. My work had begun to interest me againI mean my scholarly exertions; the other thing, my active participation in my uncle’s posthumous perfumes, had by then been cut down to a minimum. One of his former employees, the scion of a distinguished family, suggested I spend a few months in the residence of his impoverished cousins, a Mr. McCoo, retired, and his wife, who wanted to let their upper story where a late aunt had delicately dwelt. He said they had two little daughters, one a baby, the other a girl of twelve, and a beautiful garden, not far from a beautiful lake, and I said it sounded perfectly perfect. I exchanged letters with these people, satisfying them I was housebroken, and spent a fantastic night on the train, imagining in all possible detail the enigmatic nymphet I would coach in French and fondle in Humbertish. Nobody met me at the toy station where I alighted with my new expensive bag, and nobody answered the telephone; eventually, however, a distraught McCoo in wet clothes turned up at the only hotel of green-and-pink Ramsdale with the news that his house had just burned downpossibly, owing to the synchronous conflagration that had been raging all night in my veins. His family, he said, had fled to a farm he owned, and had taken the car, but a friend of his wife’s, a grand person, Mrs. Haze of 342 Lawn Street, offered to accommodate me. A lady who lived opposite Mrs. Haze’s had lent McCoo her limousine, a marvelously old-fashioned, square-topped affair, manned by a cheerful Negro. Now, since the only reason for my coming at all had vanished, the aforesaid arrangement seemed preposterous. All right, his house would have to be completely rebuilt, so what? Had he not insured it sufficiently? I was angry, disappointed and bored, but bein

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