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Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.

Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line.

But in my arms she was always Lolita.

What drives me insane is the twofold nature of this nymphet, of every nymphet perhaps, this mixture in my Lolita of tender, dreamy childishness and a kind of eerie vulgarity.

I knew, of course, that for her it was only an innocent game, a bit of backfisch foolery in imitation of some fake romance, and since (as the psychotherapist, as well as the rapist, will tell you) the limits and rules of such girlish games are fluid, or at least too childishly subtle for the older part to understand —I was dreadfully afraid I might go too far and cause her to start back in revulsion and terror.

We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.

He broke my heart, Humbert. But you, you merely broke my life.