Laughing at Lolita

Who knew pedophiles could be funny? I had heard in very, very general terms what Lolita was about, but I avoided reading it because a book about a man who got turned on by little girls just didn't appeal to me. I always have stacks of books whimpering for attention, and did not want to read yet another book that wasted my time and glorified a bad guy for the sake of voyeuristic tantalization. But Lolita is so well-written, so immersive, so beautiful (in a tainted sort of way) that you just can't put it down. The only way the author gets away with the subject matter is by assuming the persona of the pedophile who is ridiculously witty, and laughter is really the only way you are able to read the most disturbing scenes where grins transform into grimaces. The story is much deeper than just a profile of a self-proclaimed monster; it's about obsession, art, love, maturity, the new world as seen through the eyes of the old, and the consequences of living out your fantasies. There are no perfect souls---just people, and so it is challenging because it challenges our own sense of normalcy and/or moral superiority.

I didn't mean for this post to become a book review (perhaps havlie been grading one too many papers), but really: How often do you find yourself contemplating something that you've read? Often? Only for credit :)? I'm curious. Do you like to be disturbed? Or do you prefer that everything 'fit': the 'bad guys' get punished and the 'mistreated' are rewarded? Does life conform to such order? Even if everything is chance, should fiction try to make some sense out of this chaos?