Another thirteen books to catalogue after a couple of weeks away in South Australia. Even in the tiniest towns there was usually a second-hand bookshop. One was an extension of the elderly lady’s lounge room, where she sold off some of the books that now crowded out her remaining years (I know the feeling!). There was an ancient copy of a history of Australian countrywomen, but I could not bear her to part with it, so left it there. Another bookseller had a few 1950s editions of French classics, in the original. They had been in the shop for six years. I relieved him of the Madame Bovary, but left him the rest. Another woman was keener to sell, assiduous in checking my wish list against her stock. That was how I ended up with Lolita. I was looking for Nabokov’s memoir Speak, Memory, but this was all she had of his. She urged me to read it.
That was how I spent the rest of my holiday absorbed in the rollercoaster ride that is Lolita, following her and Humbert Humbert in their wanton drive across the vastness of the United States, while I and my partner pursued our own modest road trip through South Australia. What remarkable writing! Such lyrical outpourings from a character so flawed. Such a gripping story, full as it is of repetition and meanderings. Such an inspiration for a writer. So, back home and on with the work!
