I've had this book checked out of the library since February. It's not that Vladimir Nabokov is not one of my favorite writers, and it's not that the first two pages of this book aren't some of the most beautiful prose I've ever laid eyes upon (murderer/fancy prose style and all that), it's just I keep getting distracted by other books and just... life, more or less.
“An oblong puddle inset in the coarse asphalt; like a fancy footprint filled to the brim with quicksilver; like a spatulate hole through which you can see the nether sky. Surrounded. I note, by a diffuse tentacled black dampness where some dull dun dead leaves have stuck. Drowned, I should say, before the puddle had shrunk to its present size.”
Maybe I'll give it another try.