We agree that Lolita is objectively his best work, yes?

Stop embarrassing yourself.

Fuck off cucks.

god, you need to kys post-haste

>>/contrarian/

>mfw a newfag tries to fit in but he doesn't realize how retarded he is

this.

>calls critical consensus contrarian

found the contrarian

Do I need the annotated version or can I just read it?

>tfw you don't realize Lolita was written in English
>tfw you don't realize half of Nabokov's oeuvre was written in English
>tfw you don't know that Nabokov translated all his Russian novels into English himself so you literally can't lose author's intent in translation

>tfw reading Nabokov's praise for the translator before he reveals the only reason he likes it is because Nabokov is the translator
We can agree you've read little to none of his work and didn't even lurk a Nabokov thread here, babby.

I always found this book to be awfully overrated. Easily the dullest and most irritatingly written of all his books. There are certain passages in it, too many to count, where Nabokov is literally just writing like a fucking fag (or, to be less harsh, unbearably purply without enough beauty/flow to redeem it), The reason I don't like it is because Nabokov is explicitly parodying purple prose a lot of the time, but the parody is itself grating and as bad to read as most purple prose --- artificial, stilted.

I actually enjoyed Ada and Pale Fire more

>My letterbox in the entrance hall belonged to the type that allows one to glimpse something of its contents through a glassed slit. Several times already, a trick of harlequin light that fell through the glass upon an alien handwriting had twisted it into a semblance of Lolita's script causing me almost to collapse as I leant against an adjacent urn, almost my own. Whenever that happened--whenever her lovely, childish scrawl was horribly transformed into the dull hand of one of my few correspondents--I used to recollect, with anguished amusement, the times in my trustful, pre-dolorian past when I would be misled by a jewel-bright window opposite wherein my lurking eye, the ever alert periscope of my shameful vice, would make out from afar a half-naked nymphet stilled in the act of combing her Alice-in-Wonderland hair. There was in the fiery phantasm a perfection which made my wild delight also perfect, just because the vision was out of reach, with no possibility of attainment to spoil it by the awareness of an appended taboo; indeed, it may well be that the very attraction immaturity has for me lies not so much in the limpidity of pure young forbidden fairy child beauty as in the security of a situation where infinite perfections fill the gap between the little given and the great promised--the great rosegray never-to-be-had. Mes fenétres! Hanging above blotched sunset and welling night, grinding my teeth, I would crowd all the demons of my desire against the railing of a throbbing balcony: it would be ready to take off in the apricot and black humid evening; did take off--whereupon the lighted image would move and Even would revert to a rib, and there would be nothing in the window but an obese partly clad man reading the paper.

STOP (yes, I'll admit there's touches of genius here though --- "an adjacent urn, almost my own" "and Even would revert to a rib" (intentionally capitalized E to make a pun on Eve) etc. but they're still ridiculously overdone IMO)

My personal favorite is Ada. It's like Caspian caviar to Lolita apple pie...

But what's his best short story?

Two great ones:
asdk12.org/staff/ruhlin_john/HOMEWORK/245633_TerraIncognitaFullText.pdf
newyorker.com/magazine/1948/05/15/symbols-and-signs

>translated all his Russian novels into English himself
Not quite, but I do believe the translator was always Nabokov, so your mistake is understandable.

"Haha I was only pretending to be retarded"

Go back to pol you're an embarrassment