The Irish novelist Sally Rooney is a normal person. Or so she is always insisting, often with a trace of defensive desperation.
I have read Lolita differently at different times in my life. At first I read it flat-footedly, just as an object of dazzling beauty. I must have found it on my parents’ shelves, where I often foraged for reading on nights when I couldn’t sleep.
It couldn’t have happened the way I remember, because pain ought to contradict pleasure.