V a l u e1 9 9motels. And this tension between him and his surroundings is
reflected in the prose style.
Despite his high- mindedness, Humbert ends up pumping
bullets into Quilty, a sexual rival of his, and killing him. The scene
is stunning enough to be worth quoting at length:
My next bullet caught him somewhere in the side, and he rose
from his chair higher and higher, like old, grey, mad Nijinski, like
Old Faithful, like some old nightmare of mine, to a phenomenal
altitude, or so it seemed – as he rent the air – still shaking with
the rich black music – head thrown back in a howl, hand pressed
to his brow, and with his other hand clutching his armpit as if
stung by a hornet, down he came on his heels and, again a
normal robed man, scurried out into the hall...
Suddenly dignified, and somewhat morose, he started to walk
up the broad stairs, and, shifting my position, but not actually
following him up the stairs, I fired three or four times in quick
succession, wounding him at every blaze; and every time I did it
to him, that horrible thing to him, his face would twitch in an
absurd clownish manner, as if he were exaggerating the pain; he
slowed down, rolled his eyes half closing them and made a femi-
nine ‘ah!’ and he shivered every time a bullet hit him as if I were
tickling him, and every time I got him with those slow, clumsy,
blind bullets of mine, he would say under his breath, with a
phoney British accent – all the while dreadfully twitching, shiv-
ering, smirking, but withal talking in a curiously detached and
even amiable manner: ‘Ah, that hurts, sir, enough! Ah, that hurts
atrociously, my dear fellow. I pray you, desist. Ah, very painful,
very painful indeed.. .’