Reading 'Lolita' on Epstein Island

When I first read Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita – on the recommendation of my young, handsome English teacher – I was disgusted. It was paedophilia. Lolita’s “juvenile” breasts, her pigtails – it all repelled me. Then I completed my English Literature degree and was initiated to the bohemian-intelligentsia view that artistic expression was innocent, with total immunity from moral indictment. Moral disgust was childlike; aesthetic appreciation a sign of maturity. I came to adore Nabokov, with his gorgeous prose and invitations to “soar into the ravishing realm of inutile imagination”. He was a particular champion because of Lolita, which had demonstrated that even the worst moral evils could be redeemed by sufficiently beautiful expression.