It's a strange feeling, to read a first-person story about the kidnapping and long-term molestation of a kid and to feel shame for the enjoyment the words and phrases elicit. I've never before come across so many beautiful unknown words. I felt bad for the chuckles Nabokov brought out of me through this story and I'm not sure if to thank him for the relief he allowed me in this difficult story or curse him for making me feel a sympathizer-by-laughter with a self-confessed paedophile.

It's high artistry talking about sexual infatuation with a kid, describing sexual acts in no ambiguous terms and yet, somehow, to avoid becoming vulgar. Again, admire the writer and despise the character even more for his eloquence.

There is a progression for the protagonist in the story. In the beginning he sees "nymphets" as far and between exceptions, frozen islands in the flowing sea of natural ageing. Towards the end they're everywhere around him, the rule that for him seems to be the norm, that he has to ignore while he focuses on his own captive, caged prize while time still permits. Throughout the story his confessions to himself and to his captors, even to Dolores, are futile. Him realizing this fact makes him even sadder in his de-facto unforgivable role.