A Toni Meme


1. He's sitting in front of the TV, what is on the screen?
Nat Geo or Asian Food Channel.

2. You're out to eat; what kind of dressing does he get on his salad?
He won't order salad. We are carnivores through and through

3. What's one food he doesn't like?
He's not a big fan of middle-eastern cuisine

4. You go out to eat. What drink does he order?

5. Where did she go to high school?

Lazal (LSGH)

6. What size shoe does he wear?
I don't know...10?

7. If he were to collect anything, what would it be?
coffee table art books

8. What is his favorite type of sandwich?
double quarter pounder, bully boy...

9. What would he eat every day if he could?
salmon sashimi

10. What is his favorite cereal?
I have no idea but I'm pretty sure he'd prefer rice for breakfast

11. What would he never wear?
hip-hop, emo punk  grab and statement shirts. I would NEVER let him

12. What is his favorite sports team?
Green Archers! eww! hahaha...I don't know.

13. Who will he vote for President?
I think he voted for Gibo

14. Who is his best friend?
I am

15. What is one thing he wishes you wouldn't do?
hahahaha! I don't think I want to share...

16. What is his heritage?

17. You bake a cake for his birthday; what kind of cake?
one of them no-bake refrigerator cakes

18. Did he play sports in high school?
He was a varsity swimmer. It's been awhile but you can still tell from his pecs and 45!! :)

19. What could he spend hours doing?
Talking to me, sleeping, reading up on stocks and financials

20. What is one unique talent he has?
It's not so much a talent than a trait...Toni has a heart of gold. Seriously, the best guy I've ever met. I so win at life!


White Supremacy

The problem with beaches in close proximity to the city is, well, they're a bit gross.

For me, only sugar-white sand will do. If it ain't white, it ain't right.

But that doesn't mean I did not have the best time. I did! But that has more to do with the company, I suspect. You rock my socks, Toni!

with lightning



Nacidas Para Sufrir...not!

The Spanish Film Fest is tradition for us. And the only thing that made the night better was the buffet at Yakimix!

stuffing myself silly + movie + friends + night cap + gifts from the boyfriend = the perfect Saturday


Your Wife is Dead

Ted Hughes cheated on Sylvia Plath and she killed herself.

Ok, I'm sure it was a lot more complicated than that. In fact, a recently discovered poem by Hughes describing the night Sylvia Plath died gives us a glimpse of just how complicated it all was. It's hauntingly beautiful in a way only hommages to tragic love affairs can be. 


What happened that night? Your final night.
Double, treble exposure
Over everything. Late afternoon, Friday,
My last sight of you alive.
Burning your letter to me, in the ashtray,
With that strange smile. Had I bungled your plan?
Had it surprised me sooner than you purposed?
Had I rushed it back to you too promptly?
One hour later—-you would have been gone
Where I could not have traced you.
I would have turned from your locked red door
That nobody would open
Still holding your letter,
A thunderbolt that could not earth itself.
That would have been electric shock treatment
For me.
Repeated over and over, all weekend,
As often as I read it, or thought of it.
That would have remade my brains, and my life.
The treatment that you planned needed some time.
I cannot imagine
How I would have got through that weekend.
I cannot imagine. Had you plotted it all?

Your note reached me too soon—-that same day,
Friday afternoon, posted in the morning.
The prevalent devils expedited it.
That was one more straw of ill-luck
Drawn against you by the Post-Office
And added to your load. I moved fast,
Through the snow-blue, February, London twilight.
Wept with relief when you opened the door.
A huddle of riddles in solution. Precocious tears
That failed to interpret to me, failed to divulge
Their real import. But what did you say
Over the smoking shards of that letter
So carefully annihilated, so calmly,
That let me release you, and leave you
To blow its ashes off your plan—-off the ashtray
Against which you would lean for me to read
The Doctor’s phone-number.
                                                 My escape
Had become such a hunted thing
Sleepless, hopeless, all its dreams exhausted,
Only wanting to be recaptured, only
Wanting to drop, out of its vacuum.
Two days of dangling nothing. Two days gratis.
Two days in no calendar, but stolen
From no world,
Beyond actuality, feeling, or name.

My love-life grabbed it. My numbed love-life
With its two mad needles,
Embroidering their rose, piercing and tugging
At their tapestry, their bloody tattoo
Somewhere behind my navel,
Treading that morass of emblazon,
Two mad needles, criss-crossing their stitches,
Selecting among my nerves
For their colours, refashioning me
Inside my own skin, each refashioning the other
With their self-caricatures,

Their obsessed in and out. Two women
Each with her needle.

                                       That night
My dellarobbia Susan. I moved
With the circumspection
Of a flame in a fuse. My whole fury
Was an abandoned effort to blow up
The old globe where shadows bent over
My telltale track of ashes. I raced
From and from, face backwards, a film reversed,
Towards what? We went to Rugby St
Where you and I began.
Why did we go there? Of all places
Why did we go there? Perversity
In the artistry of our fate
Adjusted its refinements for you, for me
And for Susan. Solitaire
Played by the Minotaur of that maze
Even included Helen, in the ground-floor flat.
You had noted her—-a girl for a story.
You never met her. Few ever met her,
Except across the ears and raving mask
Of her Alsatian. You had not even glimpsed her.
You had only recoiled
When her demented animal crashed its weight
Against her door, as we slipped through the hallway;
And heard it choking on infinite German hatred.

That Sunday night she eased her door open
Its few permitted inches.
Susan greeted the black eyes, the unhappy
Overweight, lovely face, that peeped out
Across the little chain. The door closed.
We heard her consoling her jailor
Inside her cell, its kennel, where, days later,
She gassed her ferocious kupo, and herself.

Susan and I spent that night
In our wedding bed. I had not seen it
Since we lay there on our wedding day.
I did not take her back to my own bed.
It had occurred to me, your weekend over,
You might appear—-a surprise visitation.
Did you appear, to tap at my dark window?
So I stayed with Susan, hiding from you,
In our own wedding bed—-the same from which
Within three years she would be taken to die
In that same hospital where, within twelve hours,
I would find you dead.
                                                  Monday morning
I drove her to work, in the City,
Then parked my van North of Euston Road
And returned to where my telephone waited.

What happened that night, inside your hours,
Is as unknown as if it never happened.
What accumulation of your whole life,
Like effort unconscious, like birth
Pushing through the membrane of each slow second
Into the next, happened
Only as if it could not happen,
As if it was not happening. How often
Did the phone ring there in my empty room,
You hearing the ring in your receiver—-
At both ends the fading memory
Of a telephone ringing, in a brain
As if already dead. I count
How often you walked to the phone-booth
At the bottom of St George’s terrace.
You are there whenever I look, just turning
Out of Fitzroy Road, crossing over
Between the heaped up banks of dirty sugar.
In your long black coat,
With your plait coiled up at the back of your hair
You walk unable to move, or wake, and are
Already nobody walking
Walking by the railings under Primrose Hill
Towards the phone booth that can never be reached.
Before midnight. After midnight. Again.
Again. Again. And, near dawn, again.

At what position of the hands on my watch-face
Did your last attempt,
Already deeply past
My being able to hear it, shake the pillow
Of that empty bed? A last time
Lightly touch at my books, and my papers?
By the time I got there my phone was asleep.
The pillow innocent. My room slept,
Already filled with the snowlit morning light.
I lit my fire. I had got out my papers.
And I had started to write when the telephone
Jerked awake, in a jabbering alarm,
Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand.
Then a voice like a selected weapon
Or a measured injection,
Coolly delivered its four words
Deep into my ear: ‘Your wife is dead.’

I pity Assia Wevill (mistress-turned-wife) more than any other character in this tragedy. She committed suicide by placing her head inside an oven a la Sylvia Plath. I imagine Plath would be a very tough act to follow. How very Rebecca it all was!


One-Woman Book Club: September Edition

Today’s random musing: Why are there so many songs written about September?

It’s been awhile since I’ve made a book-related post but I haven’t been remiss in my promise / New Year’s resolution to read a minimum of four books a month. So, here goes.

1.  Dexter by Design (Jeff Lindsay) – I did not know that what I read was a fourth book in the series. Serves me right for not reading the fine print and jumping right in.

Anyone familiar with the TV adaptation of the books knows enough to expect blood and gore but it turned out a lot tamer and, for lack of a better word, sterile than expected. When it comes to the actual murders, Jeff Lindsay leaves a lot to the imagination.

Though the book is narrated through the eyes of the vigilante serial killer, Dexter, there’s none of that unsettling and even frightened feeling a “normal” person would (and should!) get when in close proximity with all things grizzly. Perhaps it’s because, being the psychopath that he is, without a conscience, remorse or any strong emotion, Dexter narrates his nocturnal activities with an almost droning and mechanical matter-of-fact-ness.

I can’t wait to read the other books, but just to be safe; I think I’m going to wait a bit. I don’t want to saturate myself with the macabre.

2. The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald) – I know I said no rereads but my resources are limited, so give me a break. Besides, I think enough time has passed.

What can I say? It’s another example of the wrong girl messing up a man’s life. It seems to be a common literary theme, but does it follow in real life? Personally, I’ve seen more cases of men --or should I say boys, messing up girls’ lives, or at least trying to, but never really succeeding --because we’re stronger and more resilient than they think!

In all fairness to the flirty, flighty and shallow Daisy Buchannan’s of the world, myself included, we mean no real harm and we need the love of a good man same as everyone else. And in behalf of my kind, I apologize for all the pain we've inflicted on hapless boys half of whom probably deserved it.

As a parting shot, though I understand the desire to impress someone from our past, if I ever get offered another chance with my ex or any one of the guys I've dated (however briefly), I WONT TAKE IT! I really don't care about what they think of me, in fact I'll be better served if they don't think about me at all. So YOU there, LEAVE ME ALONE!!!

3. Eat Pray Love (Elizabeth Gilbert)– If I don’t “discover” phenomenal successes before everyone else then I prefer reading it once all the hype has died down. I think by now everyone and their cousin has read the book and has formed an opinion about it so none of what I have to say would be original but I will say it anyway.

Elizabeth Gilbert writes beautifully. She’s charming, funny, endearing and she laments about broken hearts and decomposing dreams while simultaneously raving about good food. How can anyone with a heart and a healthy appetite not fall in love?

I forgive her for India where she bored me. I tend to shy away from anything new age-y. Clearly, I experience God and his divinity very differently and I try not to judge but, I’m sorry, it was just too weird for me.

Also, I would not go to an Ashram to “find” myself. (Italy, I understand!). I’m a big believer that we find ourselves in other people whose lives we touch, not through endless, self-indulgent introspection which can entail not talking for hours. I went to a silent retreat when I was in high-school and I didn’t even make it two hours! The retreat mistress heard me talking and rebuked me! “Get away, Satan! Do not rob us of our peace!” It freaked me out!

Somewhere in Indonesia is Gilbert gets very literal with the self-love concept and masturbates. I almost didn’t finish the book. I’m generally not squeamish about sex in literature, except, it turns out, in memoirs! I’m never picking up a memoir with masturbatory bits again. The cover should come with a warning.

4. Committed (Elizabeth Gilbert) – I say skip Eat Pray Love and go straight to Committed. I suppose Eat speaks more to the shiftless single girl while Committed speaks to the girl completely in love (yet still shiftless) and seriously contemplating marriage, which is one of the reasons I find it more accessible. It has all the travel, love, relationship, history and random trivia bits that I loved in Eat and none of the New Age drivel. It's reassuring to read about marriage from the point of view of someone who doesn't want to be a wife, at least not in the conventional sense of the word. You see, I don't want to be a wife either. I want to spend the rest of my life with my one great love in a legally binding way, indeed I do. That's another question altogether.


I was away...

...in every sense of the word, you could say. It has been awhile since my last confession blog entry and for that I apologize. Things will change since my job is, in effect, training me to be a more diligent updater.


Il Carnevale dell’Amore at Edsa Shangri-La

Il Carnevale dell’Amore at Edsa Shangri-La

Delight in the best of Italian sights, sounds and tastes in a carnival of love.

Italy purveys the kind of splendour that inspires universal admiration, be it in art, music or food.

Read more in LuxeDining.com

I had dinner at Paparazzi not too long ago and ran into old acquaintances I'm always happy to see, and met some new ones I'd love to see again. For entertainment we had Italian classical opera artists –the tenor Maurizio Saltarin (referred to by some as the next Pavarotti) and the soprano Jolanta Stanelite- serenade us. They sang the aria from La Traviata, my favorite opera.

Wow, that sounded pretentious! But I kid you not, it is my favorite opera. I have a special obsession with Maria Callas and courtesans.

Also, La Traviata was based on Dumas' The Lady of the Camellias or Camille, if you're pertaining to its many film versions. Camille is also my second name, which my late grandfather never really liked. He said it was a name of a "bad woman" i.e. a courtesan, no doubt he got that from the Camille films. Not coincidentally, La Traviata means "woman gone astray."

Was everyone able to follow?


I've been busy

with him for the most part...

...but I've also been busy with other things like a new job, match-making (unsuccessful thus far but i remain optimistic), some issues on the homefront and a laptop that crashed. I don't back-up my files. I've been meaning to but I never really felt a sense of urgency for it. I just never thought it could happen to me! So that's a year and a half worth of files gone forever. I regret not being diligent in uploading my photos with Toni. *tear*

 Honestly, I didn't realize how much abused I've inflicted on Mercucio (that's my laptop) but the tech guys said the hard drive was completely fried and the files are irretrievable. I promise to take better care of him from now on.


"You're not rocking vintage. You're rocking recycled."

Just because it's been hanging in your closet for several seasons, unused, it doesn't make it vintage.

Is there a more misused word in the English language?


Summer lives on in these designer collections

Full story and photo gallery: http://www.cosmo.ph/style-beauty/trend-alert/summer-lives-on-in-these-designers-collections/

Fun, fearless Pinays are lucky to be able to enjoy summer all year round here. So stop lamenting the end of the season and pick up more summer styling ideas!
The scorching summer days and balmy nights call for only minimal clothing, but you need not shed your style along with past seasons' layers. This season provides the perfect excuse to show just a little more sun-kissed skin through breezy resort wear and swimsuits.

Pinay designers Rosanna Ocampo, Charina Sarte, and Hindy Weber-Tantoco unveiled their sultry summer collections in a fashion show held along with the grand launch of Azure Urban Resort Residences. Lifestyle inspires fashion, and each of their collections swings with the luxurious, resort way of life made available by Azure. In like manner, you can get inspired by these collections when shopping for items that suit your personal style, needs, and budget.

Rosanna Ocampo pays homage to the legendary modernist architect Antonio Gaudi as seen by the play of angles, curves, and geometric shapes in her designs. Her beach and resort wear are great for summer nights out and daytime power dressing.

Charina Sarte emphasized the beauty of the beach with her summer wear that is equally colorful, feminine, and sexy. Her collection includes bold prints, embellished bikinis and maillots, and sheer cover-ups. When you're feeling more relaxed, you can turn to this collection for fashion inspiration.

Hindy Tantoco curiously takes her design cue from the powerful king of the ocean: the great white shark. Strong, edgy, and spirited her collection sticks to a black and white palette. Strategic cut-outs lend her solid-colored swimsuits just the right amount of boldness. If you're not a fan of color, you'll love getting ideas from her collection.

Century Properties' Global Brand Ambassador Ruffa Gutierrez and Joey Mead played hosts for the night's festivities.


Special thanks to my boyfriend/bestfriend/all-around hero, Toni, for lending me your lens and your external flash! And to my best friend Ysa.


The Misses Saigon

I want to make a proper post about our recent trip. But I can't seem to muster the energy. I hate how real life gets in the way of blogging. Boo.

For now here are some photos. :)

The newly-minted couple and fiery scorpios: Charanz (Charvic + Pranz)

Another one of my best friends, Paolo

And another best friend, Ysa

The prettiest baby I ever did see!

My last best friend (for this post) Joel, who met us in Ho Chi Minh from Thailand

Patty, light-of-my-life-fire-of-my-loins-my-sin-my-soul


mirror, mirror

            "Guys, look at this! Look at my reflection! I'm tall!!!!!"
     "Wow, you look slim!"
     "You mean I don't look like that in real life?"
     "Er...Sorry, no."

We watched Iron Man 2 with friends last weekend and squeezed in a bit of shoe shopping while at it. Not for us, but for our guy friend. Gosh, men's shoes are massive! I could easily fit both my feet in a size 10.

We got a little obsessed with this huge mirror in Traffic. It was magical! I've never looked taller. Or slimmer, I was told. Pfft 

 I've found a solution for bad hair days: run a dollop of glue (I used Elmer's Glue!) through your tresses and viola, glossy, well-defined waves! It was an accident of course. I'd never purposely put GLUE(!!!) in my hair and I'll never do it again. I thought it a hair product, a really foul-smelling one.   


Capiz, April 2010

Toni and I caught an early flight to Capiz a couple of weekends ago for his grandfather's wake. Sadly, I had to fly back the next day. I didn't even make it to the intement. RIP. He was in his 90s. So was my paternal grandfather when he died. Really, what more can we transient beings ask for? We got more years from our lolos than most people get.

That's not him, FYI but I did take this photo while I was there.

one-woman book club, April edition

I never got around to finishing Brida. I tried reading it in daylight and it still gave me the creeps.

1. I Love You Beth Cooper Larry Doyle

I have no love for Hayden Panettiere so I’ve never had the urge to watch the movie adaptation, but the book turned out to be quite good. I’ve long out grown high school tales of love, loss and homeworks but  this one to be surprisingly intelligent and lol funny, reminiscent of the great teen movies of old like The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, a little Can’t Buy Me Love and maybe even (a less annoying) Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I heard the movie tanked and I say blame it on Hayden!

2. The Miseducation of Tabitha Stone Emily Durkheim

Well, I’m having a hard I’m stringing together something to say about this one but I shall try. Smut? Soft-core porn? Amateur erotica? My best friend, Patty lent me this for a laugh. I suppose one must find creative ways to stay sane in law school. The eponymous Tabitha is your typical 25 year old rich-bitch, LA-bred slut wreaking havoc in the small, east coast college her father exiled her to. If they ever make a Paris Hilton biography (have they already?) and if she ever manages a college degree I imagine it would be quite similar to this.

3. Prom Kings and Drama Queens Dorian Cirrone

I picked this one because I gravitate to all things pink. I do indeed judge books by their covers. A page, I kid you not, a page into the book I started to to wonder why I was wasting my time on it when there are more interesting books to waste my time on. But it was an easy enough read so I finished it. The only thing I hate more than disappointments is not finishing what I started. The book was no different from the sweet valley/sweet dreams/love story pocket books I devoured while growing up. Once upon a time I lived for those but as I said earlier I have out grown high school and the stories they inspire.

4. Laughter in the Dark (Camera Obscura) Vladimir Nabokov

I read somewhere that you can’t claim to be well-read if the only thing you’ve ever read of Nabokov is Lolita. So now, am I officially “well-read”? Where do I get my certificate?

Once again, another literary example of how a girl can frak up a man’s life. The protagonist, Albinus, is not as poetic as Humbert so it didn’t have the lyricism of Lolita. While it is also a dysfunctional May-December romance, and this time the girl is, I use the term loosely, of “consenting age”.

5. The Black Dahlia James Ellroy

I was saving this for May but I figured why not give overachievement a try. I read it in a day with no chick-lit breaks in between. I haven’t read much noir books and I’m reminded why in Dahlia. I would’ve rather just borrowed the DVD. One invests much more when reading than in watching a movie, and not just because it takes longer. Strange, because I tend to enjoy police/detective narratives, Sherlock Holmes being the precursor. I wouldn’t immerse myself in anything this depressing for a whole day again. Once I was done with the book I was ready to throw myself off the Hollywood sign.  I've yet to read LA Confidential. I don't think I even want to. I've seen the film. That ought to be enough.



I am an ardent lover of Filipino Cuisine and I deeply mourn the dying traditions of food preparation that require the women-folk (with an army of household help if lucky) to slave away in a sweltering kitchen whipping up calorific dishes. No sarcasm there.

Since I haven’t the luxury of time to unleash my inner domestic goddess and I no longer live with my mommy (and her army of household help), I find myself drawn to restaurants that harks back to my delicious childhood.

For my birthday, because I was being extra-nostalgic, Toni and I ended up in Crisostomo in Eastwood. I took quite a while deciding on where to eat since the new Eastwood Mall is replete with all sorts of restaurants all vying for my attention. We passed Crisostomo, where the manager lured us with the promise of a free dessert. I don’t eat desserts (because I never leave room enough for it!) but the jars of the taba ng talangka (crab fat paste) they were selling did it for me.

Crisostomo, I suppose, is named after the protagonist of the classic Jose Rizal novel. Most of the names of the dishes are allusions to it: Crispin at Basilio (tokwa’t baboy), Doña Victorina (sautéed prawns), Noli Me Talong (Tortang Talong Pie) et al. Naturally, they also have Tinolang Manok, which had a crucial, if small, role to play in the novel. Theirs is a step above our standard Tinola, with green papaya and buko (coconut) thrown into the mix. While I do have an adventurous palate, I prefer my Tinola with sayote and I don’t care much for buko.

Interiors were cute, especially the oddly-shaped powder blue chairs. The wallpaper and the rest of the decor reminded me of a cross between plush early 80s/ late 70s Pinoy living rooms and Mrs. Robinson's living room in the movie The Graduate, I don't know why.

We ordered Tadiyang ni Tiago, Monggo soup with Chicharon and Tuyo and Callos, one of my favourite dishes. Naturally, I had very high hopes for that one. They offered, I forgot to mention, unlimited servings of rice! I was in heaven with bowls upon bowls of steaming white rice for clouds!

Tadiyang ni Tiago- soft, juicy and crisp all in the right measure. I cannot praise this enough! We thought the serving was small but it turns out our eyes are bigger than our appetite. We couldn't even finish it!  The Callos was delicious, a little too watered-down and tomato-sour than what I prefer but it had green olives, which I really liked. I must tell my mom about it. Her Callos is still way better.

We ordered the Monggo soup as an afterthought and I scalded my taste buds after one careless spoonful and lost all sense of taste after that.

For dessert Toni had a forgettable ice-pandan with jelly and milk thingamajig than deserves far less words than I’ve already allotted for it. Harsh? Sorry, I really have no love for most desserts so don’t take it personally.

The Verdict? Well, most everything in the menu made me figuratively salivate. I intend to try them all!



My bestfriend takes pictures of me all the freaking time! (As I am a cam-whore, I rarely complain).

This time, I return the favor.

one-woman book club, March edition

I've been slacking off. In fact I only started reading on the 28th. I find that March, the begining of summer and my birthday month, is plenty distracting that it almost waylaid my best laid plans. Not to worry, I completed my --not four, but five books with plenty of time to spare.

1. Percy Jackson : Sea of Monsters by Rick Riordian
I wasn't supposed to read anything of the Percy Jackson kind this month. But, truth be told, Paolo Coehlo's Brida gave me the creeps! Imagine reading about witches, worlocks, tarot cards and the occult late at night -that's when I usually read- in  a dark, empty and old house. I needed a break and...

2. Percy Jackson : Titan's Curse by Rick Riordian
...I didn't want to read a YA novel about vampires. I really wish this vampire-mania blows over soon. The Percy Jackson books have all blurred together in one puddle of mush in my head. I can hardly distiguish one book from the other...

3. Percy Jackson : Battle of the Labyrinth by Rick Riordian
...but I really, really like the series and I'd recommend it in a heartbeat to anyone. I like that it's easy to read, very easy on the eyes (written with dyslexics in consideration perhaps?) and fun, too. I particularly enjoy reading modernized takes on old characters from Greek Mythology like Circe and Daedalus.

4. Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner
It might be a good idea to include one chick-lit a month. I'm not a big fan of the genre but, as I learned while ploughing through this month's reading list, the "easy" and "fun" books are necessary to get me through. Good in Bed was likewise not part of my original reading list for March, but I needed a break from the wordy and emotionally disturbing Lolita.

The heroine is Cannie, an overweight writer. I suppose you could say that the book resonated with me at many levels and not just with her weight struggles. After all, I vacillate from sizes 6-8 petite for tops and 8-10 petite for bottom (pear-shaped, y'all!). I'm no Olsen twin but that's hardly plus size!

She lost a love, lost some weight and got a big career break while at it. In the end she gets the guy and a baby but she did gain back some of the weight she lost. For  all intents and purposes, it is a happy ending. She came to accept her weight and learned to love her body regardless of size. Well, I haven't given up on becoming a size 2 so those coming-to-terms-with-your-current-weight endings don't really sit well with me.

5. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov                    
What can I say about this one that hasn't already been said? It's shocking, immoral, sad, perverted, disturbing and everything it's touted to be. It's also very beautifully written, the language and the imagery are simply divine -and it gave me a migrane! I like to finish books in one sitting but I couldn't do that with Lolita, where 10 minutes of reading felt like several hours.

Sentences are long and languorous, pretty though it may be it's torture after a few pages. I like that the narrator, Humbert Humbert would intermittenly and without warning switch to French sans the English translation. My meager units of French back in college weren't such a waste after all. 

Lolita has become one of those must-read books but I actually prefer the movie (Adrian Lyne, 1997). It keeps the best lines (light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul), and the gorgeous cinematography and clever use soft-focus goes a long way in turning the otherwise depraved to something tragically beautiful. The movie version Humbert (played by Jeremy Irons) is only half as dispicable. Though I suppose that has a lot to do with the movie leaving out a lot of the more disturbing details of H's life pre-Lolita and because Jeremy Irons is one inbelievably dreamy guy! (Stanley Kubric's Humbert was not nearly as pretty).

I have not a shred of sympathy for book version Humbert Humbert, nor for the titular Lolita.  How ever beautifully written, it does not make what it is about any easier to stomach. Nonetheless, Nabokov's talent is unquestionable and I'm excited to read more of his works.