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that made me race with all speed toward my lone gratification.
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So, we have a kind of image there of the autonomous aesthetic pleasure,
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right, the pleasure of imagination that's taken alone,
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according to one's own thoughts rather than in some broader, more social form.
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But abruptly, fiendishly,
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the tender pattern of nudity I had adored
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would be transformed into the disgusting lamp-lit bare arm of a man in his underclothes
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reading his paper by the open window in the hot, damp, hopeless summer night.
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So, the object of this wonderful aesthetic reverie,
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the nymphet, turns out to be an adult male.
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And I just want you to ask yourself why that could be.
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But, Nabokov's relationship to this modernist past