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Lo (1,6) The Young Giantess
May. 23rd, 2013 09:55 amAfter Monique afforded Humbert a little taste of real nymphet loving, he was emboldened to hunt up some more, and to get the full thing, presumably something closer to twelve-years-old. And he was willing to cross some lines to get it.
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My brief acquaintance with [Monique] 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. … 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 Provencal 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’s torso; then seeing my determination to leave, she demanded her money. A door at the end of the room was opened, and two men who had been dining in the kitchen joined in the squabble.
-- “Lolita” by Vladimir Nabokov
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Humbert is not a brave man, and he is not a fighter. He readily gave up the cash and left, no doubt quite shaken. The feverish pursuit of such dark sins can be nasty business. Dirty.
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
My brief acquaintance with [Monique] 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. … 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 Provencal 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’s torso; then seeing my determination to leave, she demanded her money. A door at the end of the room was opened, and two men who had been dining in the kitchen joined in the squabble.
-- “Lolita” by Vladimir Nabokov
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Humbert is not a brave man, and he is not a fighter. He readily gave up the cash and left, no doubt quite shaken. The feverish pursuit of such dark sins can be nasty business. Dirty.
