This book is a tar pit, full of good and beautiful things, but only because it sucked them up and smothered them.
It's easy to get lost in Humbert Humbert's sick world because Nabokov's narrative voice is so engaging, but the beautiful words are dimmed by disgusting sentiments. I have never felt so unclean while reading a book, and I'm no prude. I watch Spartacus: Blood and Sand.
I also want to use a time machine to travel back in time and tell Mr. Nabokov that he shouldn't have used the word "down" so much in reference to Lolita, if at all. She's a pre-pubescent, not a duck.