Aujourd'hui, la première, extraite du chapitre 14, la scène sur le sofa :
La scène pourrait être choquante.
She twisted herself free, recoiled, and lay back in the right-hand corner of the davenport. Then, with perfect simplicity, the impudent child extended her legs across my lap.
By this time I was in a state of excitement bordering on insanity: but I also had the cunning of the insane. Sitting there, on the sofa, I managed to attune, by a series of stealthy movements, my masked lust to her guileless limbs. It was no easy matter to divert the maiden’s attention while I performed the obscure adjustments necessary for the success of the trick. Talking faster, lagging behind my own breath, catching it with it, mimicking a sudden toothache to explain the breaks in my patter – and all the while keeping a maniac’s inner eye on my distant golden goal, I cautiously increased the magic friction that was going away, in an illusional, if not factual sense, with the physically irremovable, but psychologically very friable texture of the material divide (pyjamas and robe) between the weight of two sunburnt legs, resting athwart my lap, and the hidden tumour of an unspeakable passion. Having, in the course if my patter, hit upon something nicely mechanical, I recited, garbling them slightly, the words of a foolish song that was then popular – O Carmen, my little Carmen, something, something, those something nights, and the stars, and the cars, and the bars, and the barman; I kept repeating this automatic stuff and holding her under its spell (special because of the garbling), and all the while I was mortally afraid that some act of God might interrupt me, might remove the golden load in the sensation of which all my being seems concentrated, and this anxiety forced me to work, for the first minute or so, more hastily than consensual with deliberately modulated enjoyment. The stars that sparkled, and the car that parked, and the bars, and the barmen, were presently taken over by her, her voice stole and corrected the tune I had been mutilating. She was musical and apple-sweet. Her legs twitched a little as they lay across my live trap; I stroked then, there she lolled in the right-hand corner, almost asprawl, Lola the bobby-soxer, devouring her immemorial fruit, singing threw it’s juice, losing her slipper, rubbing the heel of her slipperless foot in its sloppy anklet, against the pile of old magazines heaped on my left on the sofa – and every movement she made, every shuffle and ripple, helped me to conceal and to improve the secret system of tactile correspondence between beast and beauty – between my gagged, bursting beast and the beauty of her dimpled body in its innocent cotton frock.
Under my glancing fingertips I felt the minute hairs bristle ever so slightly along her shins. I lost myself in the pungent but healthy heat which the summer haze hung about little Haze. Let her stay, let her stay… As she strained to chuck the core of her abolished apple into the fender, her young weight, her shameless innocent shanks and round bottom, shifted in my tense, tortured, subreptitiously labouring lap: and all of a sudden a mysterious change came over my senses. I entered a plane of being where nothing mattered, save the infusion of jew brewed within my body. What had begun as a delicious distension of my innermost roots became a glowing tingle which now had reached that state of absolute security, confidence and reliance not found elsewhere in conscious life. With the deep hot sweetness thus established and well on its way to the ultimate convulsion, I felt I could slow down in order to prolong the glow. Lolita had been safely solipsized. The implied sun pulsated in the supplied poplars; we were fantastically and divinely alone; I watched her, rosy-gold-dusted, beyond the veil of my controlled delight, unaware of it, alien to it, and the sun was on her lips, and her lips were apparently still forming the words of the Carmen – barmen ditty that no longer reached my consciousness. Everything was now ready. The nerves of pleasure had been laid bare. The corpuscles of Krauze were entering the phase of frenzy. I had ceased to be Humbert the Hound, the sad-eyed degenerate cur clasping the boot that would presently kick him away. I was above tribulations of ridicule, beyond the possibilities of retribution. In my self made seraglio, I was a radiant and robust Turk, deliberately, in the full consciousness of his freedom, postponing the moment of actually enjoying the youngest and frailest of his slaves. Suspended on the brink of that voluptuous abyss (a nicety of physiological equipoise comparable to certain techniques in the arts) I kept repeating the chance words after her – barmen, alarmin’, my charmin’, my Carmen, ahmen, ahahamen – as one talking and laughing in his sleep while my happy hand crept up her sunny legs as far as the shadow of decency allowed. The day before she had collided with the heavy chest in the hall ad – “look, look”, I gasped – “look what you’ve done, what you’ve done to yourself, ah, look”; for there was, I swear, a yellowish-violet bruise on her lovely nymphet thigh which my huge hairy hand massaged and slowly enveloped – and because of her very perfunctory underthings, there seemed to be nothing to prevent my muscular thumb from reaching the hot hollow of her groin – just as you might tickle and caress giggling child – just that – and : “oh, it’s nothing at all”, she cried with a sudden shrill note in her voice, and she wriggled, and squirmed, and threw her head back, and her teeth rested on her glistening underlip as she half-turned away, and my moaning mouth, gentleman of the jury, almost reached her bare neck, while I crushed out her left buttock the last throb of the longest ecstasy man or monster had ever known.
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