I have just gone through the deeply satisfying experience of finishing a great book and thinking to myself “it was definitely worth reading”. This is relevant because said feeling hadn’t happened to me in a long time.
Do not get me wrong, there is a plethora of awarding reads waiting for me on the shelves of my room. Yet somehow, I never seemed to try the right book at the right time, which means that I have spent months in the perpetual limbo of reading about 10 books simultaneously, while not truly enjoying any of them.
Simply put, it has not been a good year for reading. I am by no means exaggerating. My reading lust was gone. I tried classics, modern stuff, poetry, biography, YA, English, Spanish… all in vane. It was a year of book abstinence. How very terribly sad.
I have no idea why my appetite for literature vanished but I do know this: I started reading Nabokov’s Lolita a couple of weeks ago, and was desperately hooked on it. I hated it and craved it at the same time. It was disturbing, scary, sweet and sarcastic. I hadn’t enjoyed a novel that way since Fight Club (both are creative but, by far, Lolita has a more delightful use of words).
I take this as a sign that my reading drought is over. Thank you, Nabokov.
