"Never in my life had I confessed so much or received so many confessions. The sincerity and artlessness with which she discussed what she called her “love-life,” from first necking to connubial catch-as-catch-can, were, ethically, in striking contrast with my glib compositions, but technically the two sets were congeneric since both were affected by the same stuff (soap operas, psychoanalysis and cheap novelettes) upon which I drew for my characters and she for her mode of expression."
— Lolita, Nabokov. The scorn (and his depictions of women) remind me of Flaubert. I’m not sure if at some level Nabokov tries to redeem desire, or if H.H. is just as mercilessly ironized.
