Nabokov pulled the biggest prank in literature when he wrote this child rape manual thinly disguised as a confessional story. He had the audacity to model the pervert on himself but knew he could rely on the plausible deniability of “unreliable narrator.” He knew he could revel in child rape like a pig in shit as long as he killed off the protagonist at the end, after he (and the creepy male readers) had their fun. He knew the literary world worshipped him blindly and believed he could do no wrong, and he milked it for all it was worth. His admirers today are so thoroughly indoctrinated that they shrug off all critique with “you just don’t understand literature.”

I understand literature. I understand that fiction doesn’t just come out of nowhere; it’s distilled from lived experience. Writers write about what they are obsessed with. I understand that egomaniacs like Nabokov also like lots of attention and to sell lots of books. I don’t believe for one second that he was motivated to write this book because he was concerned about child sexual abuse and wanted to raise awareness about it, as some of his worshippers claim. He did it to shock, to get attention, to make money, and to gratify his creepy-ass fantasies. I don’t know if he ever actually abused a child, but I know he sure liked fantasizing about it. And if anyone I am getting to know cites this as a favorite book of theirs, I know I’m not going to like that person.