Typically, I get half way through this, abandon it for months, perpetuate my inertia by assuming it'll take too much of me to get back into it, then spontaneously remove it from my shelf one morning and whack out the remaining half in less than a day. Of course it was amazing; I shouldn't need to even allude to that. I was left somewhat distraught, though: Milton's writing is so alive, so fiery, when it is about Satan, and Adam and Eve's pain, and the terror of their love and, thieving my opinion from Blake, the discrepancy between that magnificence and the flatness, the falsity, of the sections concerning heavenly beings left me feeling as though I'd been denied something yet more fantastic. I feel peevish attacking Milton for not being consistently breathtaking - it should be enough just to have written the chapters of disarming amazingness that he has done - but still, I feel the God bits were written out of obligation, and as such are unspeakably crude. They disappoint and frustrate me; they turn even beautiful language into a grey mass of ... nothing, really. It sounds a false dichotomy even to read it back to myself, even hours after feeling that disappointment, but it's true, I know it. Anyway, that's why this gets a four: for being superb only inconsistently; for causing me pain that I abhorred as well as pain that I welcomed. I will read it to my children, but not in its entirety.

I was in love with Emile Zola after about two sentences of preface. The story itself was not without its flaws: for one thing, it climaxed far too soon. But! It was gripping; it made me writhe; it made me giggle blackly; it still makes me worry about my neck. In short, delightful.

Overwhelmingly masculine. Regretably, the intensity stopped being one I could fully tap into after the murder. That doesn't stop this being impressive; it just meant I was washed out for much of it. I ... hmm. I kind of feel I'm not doing this justice: I did enjoy it. And Lizaveta broke my heart - the way she held her hands out made me want to implode. It was good, I promise, I promise.

Lolita is an assault. I read it over two days in breaks at work and, emerging from the 'quiet area' in the corner at the end of each one (reading at desks being forbidden, of course - unless it's the Financial Times), I was entirely unable to readjust to the world. I can't actually remember anything that happened on those days: it's like trying to remember a dream you can just about grasp the overall atmosphere of, but that is all, no details. I know everyone says this, but it is so dizzying, so overwhelming, so disturbing; in a word, amazing. I think Martin Amis sums it up best when he says: 'you read Lolita sprawling limply in your chair, ravished, overcome, nodding scandalised assent'. It *was* ravishing, and you feel abused, and you can't shake the concern that a substantial part of you absolutely fucking loved it.

I for one am quite happy leaving the book with these concerns, though: far better to be questioning of it all than for Nabokov to have taken the easy route and plastered insurmountable moralism over the whole thing. It probably sounds obvious but the books I value the most are those that leave me wondering, whose themes force me to reconsider my views, that wrench my mind wider open than I ever wanted it to be and mockingly inform me I can go back if I wish, knowing full well I do not wish to; those that make me uncomfortable - and this was anything but comfortable. Empathising with a paedophile is not something I ever really thought I would or could do, but here I am, with a list of reasons as long as my arm to find Humbert Humbert contemptible, knowing full well I can say what I want but, still, I'm persuaded: we're both achingly human and alone and failures (albeit not in the same way). And his snide comments completely won me over, despite the towering ugliness I knew he embodied. I know I'm not expressing this very well; I feel nervous about publishing this, to be honest. But I want to get my point across: that the extreme conflict caused by this book is proof of its necessity, its importance, its power.

It's predictable but I can't finish this entry without praising Nabokov's hold of the English language. I don't really think I can say anything about this that somebody else hasn't said more eloquently (and famously). Still. That was the most ravishing aspect for me. Hats off, Vladimir.

How tiresome.

What can I say? I have never cried so much for a book in my life. I was wary when I started: as with all classics, I was concerned that those who praised it only did so because everyone else does and always has, and that I'd find myself disillusioned and disappointed by the end of the first page ... but that didn't happen. And even though I knew all along Anna was going to die (how amazing an experience would it be to read this for the first time not knowing? I wonder if it's even possible to do that these days) I couldn't believe it until it was too late ... I was entirely swept up by every misery, every concern. I adore how Tolstoy weaves debate into dialogue, how this book became not just a story, not just an examination of the unbearable discomfort of being experienced by all, but also a treasurebox of ideas, momentarily relieving me from the tragedy and getting me to think about all sorts. And I don't think I've ever been so delighted as I was with Kitty and Levin's wedding and the fumbling with the rings, or the proposal; never so wrenched as during Nikolai's death, until Anna's breakdown and having to watch and feel her hurtling to her end. This is incoherent and I don't care - I am utterly overwhelmed by this amazing, amazing book. I almost feel as though it would be disrespectful to exhibit any level of composure at this stage.

AMAZING. I thought Pushkin was going to be one of those people everyone overrates because it makes them look literary to people who don't know what they're talking about ... but he isn't. He's just fucking fantastic.

All right. I admit it: this is my favourite book.

I'm going to give you/myself some space to get over this revelation.













I'd like to add that this translation is even sexier than I ever thought it could be, especially the notes. So alive! And calming. Wonderful.

This was lovely, and I even love its faults beyond the virtues of (some) other poetry. That doesn't mean I won't go into them, though: in spite of his relentlessly undisciplined structuring, Cohen still managed to make me feel towards the end of the book that I was just reading the same thing over and over again. Don't get me wrong - that thing is a great thing, but it was sad that he ran out of steam. I suppose it's foolish to expect the genius of his earlier work to sustain itself, but still.

That said, I'd recommend this to anyone, and like looking at the spine on my bookshelf. I'll certainly dip into it again, and it will be mega.

I think, if I were to have a competition with Nicholas Guest to see who bummed Henry James harder, I would win. He manages to strike the balance between the concise and the beautiful, and it's *great*.