Length: 2 minute read
Sixty-Five years ago, Nabakov's Lolita was published in Paris. It would take another three years and the use of a publisher of pornography before it was published in the United States. It remains a controversial novel, despite being widely acclaimed as one of the greatest novels in the English language. I wrote this in fun, a reworking of the opening chapter of Lolita, after reading about the recent farce where a spoof letter by F. Scott Fitzgerald, but actually written by Nick Farriella and published in McSweeney's, which spread across social media and was taken to be genuine.
Nabakov's Corona
by S.G. Parker
Corona, halo of my life, fire of my lungs. Enclosing me body and soul. Covid-19: catching in my throat and biting my lip before reprising a faded meme: n-n-n-n-nineteen.
She was plain flu in January, her toll of ordinary surprise. She was the Virus in February. She was Covid-19 in March. She was SARS-Cov-2 to the misguided pedants of April. But in me she was always Corona.
Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Corona at all had I not visited a wet-market one summer. In an empire of the East.
Oh when? About as many years ago as the numbers in her name.
Genders of the jury, withhold your contempt for my reckless adventure; for Corona was Cassandra in those days of old.
13th May, 2020