He is abnormal. He is not a gentleman. But how magically his singing violin can conjure up a tendresse, a compassion for Lolita that makes us entranced with the book while abhorring its author!
You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.
I was led upstairs, and to the left – into “my” room. I inspected it through the mist of my utter rejection of it
“How I love this garden [no exclamation mark in her tone]. Isn’t it divine in the sun [no question mark either].”
Please, reader: no matter your exasperation with the tenderhearted, morbidly sensitive, infinitely circumspect hero of my book, do not skip these essential pages! Imagine me; I shall not exist if you do not imagine me; try to discern the doe in me, trembling in the forest of my own iniquity; let’s even smile a little. After all, there is no harm in smiling.