Lolita, what are you doing to me!

Every morning, I trudge along in the line that is piling onto the white and green trains, plop onto my regular seat, eyes droopy, stifling a yawn, hearing unabashed snores emanate from the nasal depths of other riders. Truly depressing setting! The foursome gathered around merrily discussing interesting things such as an absent co-worker's romance problems and other such topics of gossip are not any more pleasant. Where are my gossip buddies, where's my pillow?

Out comes the hardcover edition of Lolita, page 205. The ribbon goes from page 205 to 225. I'm being overly optimistic today. I begin. Humbert Humbert and his obsession with 13y/o nymphet Lolita. Wonderfully written, this book is so delectable. I gobble up every word. I can't put it down. But deep down, I'm crying. You're destroying this little girl for your own sick pleasure... you've destroyed her, you've ruined her life. I stop reading. I take a deep breath. I continue. No I can't! I stop again. I pull the ribbon from 225 and insert it between 214 and 215. That's as far as I can get today...

"At the hotel we had separate rooms, but in the middle of the night she came sobbing into mine, and we made it up very gently. You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go."