A Portrait of Alvea as a Graduate

Sitting on the green cushioned seat some distance away from the stage, I ponder on the curious numbness of my disposition. Three years and two terms of college have finally come into fruition on this fateful day. Back then, I would imagine how glorious this day would be, and yet…

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But in my arms, she was always Lolita

There are only two books to date that have rendered me utterly and exceptionally astonished by the striking impact of their first few sentences. One of which, went like this:

❝ Happy families are all alike;
every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. ❞

But of the two I refer to, the other is undoubtedly my uncontested favorite.
It went exactly like so:

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

I’ve read and reread those lines over and over, and even as I typed them here (by memory, mind you), I savored the delicious gesticulation of the tongue while I attempted to retrace my own steps down the palate to whisper the three most beloved syllables.

And recalling the moment when I first read those lines, I refused to proceed with the rest of the narrative without fully comprehending, without fully immersing and overwhelming myself with the beauty, the depth, and the emotion of those fiery words.

In that instant, the reader is made aware that the narrator is completely and unquestionably under the spell of this Lolita woman—whoever she may be—only to find out that the Lolita woman isn’t actually a woman, but a girl. A young, prepubescent girl-child of twelve during the time when the narrator first encounters her.

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This week in words: irrelevant points

I have been gorging on “natural” cough syrups, over the counter decongestants, and mucolytic capsules (free from the office) these past 4 days and yet my inflamed throat seems to rage all the more in protest against my curative attempts to escape from this revolting and embarrassing condition.

In point of fact: I feel like dying.

Well no, not really. But I have been a victim of this exasperating illness for more than half a week now and there’s only so much I can do to make myself feel better. I fucking hate this fucking cold with the sore and itchy throat that fucking comes from post-nasal drip. In other news, I love how you can insert fucking in between nearly every other fucking word. Goodness. This discomfort is rotting away my sanity and sense of lingual propriety.

But fuck it.

Well, it’s been a while since I posted some life updates, so here’s one (five, actually) just in case I’d like to remember how much I wanted to rip my throat bloody on the 4th day of October in 2014.

"You read Lolita sprawling limply in your chair, ravished, overcome, nodding scandalized assent!" - Martin Amis, Observer
“You read Lolita sprawling limply in your chair, ravished, overcome, nodding scandalized assent!”

1) I’m nearly done with Lolita, which took quite longer than I had expected. It’s a beautiful—if debatably inappropriate and scandalous—novel about an aged Humbert Humbert and his incestuous relationship with his prepubescent stepdaughter, Dolores Haze. By the time I’m halfway into the storyline, I had to pause and examine my own parameters of morality because I had fallen in sympathy with the horrid Humbert Humbert. This, I put all blame on the author’s remarkable use of language to twist and transfigure a supposedly indecent and repulsive inclination to a conceivable and almost acceptable state of affairs. I would have to stop myself at this point because I’m om the verge of writing a full review, which categorically deserves a separate post (most likely on goodreads). Read: 329 more words