d. Vladimir Nabokov (1977)

Typical of the way things seem to work out, Nabokov died just before I became interested in him.

I had heard of him, of course, but hadn’t actually read anything by him.  What I had heard, of course, was about Lolita, that filthy novel.  I suppose I was lucky in not having read it in the hopes of being sexually aroused.

Aroused, yes.  Just not sexually.

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