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by a cosmopolitan European for his own ends,
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ends which are seen as a kind of perversion?
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That's that element of violence that keeps coming back,
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the trail of slime across this dream of transforming reality,
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in this Joycean way, into something saved,
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the dream of turning fate, the fate of a dead mother--or,
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in Nabokov's own case, a father killed by assassination,
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a brother killed in a concentration camp--
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turning that into this beautifully worked out, playful system,
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defined by puns, and images, and a spell of rhetoric.
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In other words, could it be that all of this modernist technique
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that Humbert succeeds in putting to his own ends--