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根据旅美俄裔作家Vladimir Nabokov的同名小说改编，剧本也由他写成！
附小说介绍一篇：（http://culture.163.com/05/1028/15/215N19E900280015.html）
1955年，《洛丽塔》由法国奥林匹亚出版社出版，书一面市，立刻引起轩然大波，并遭到法国当局的查禁。争议的焦点集中在色情和乱伦问题上，一个俄罗斯贵族的后裔，一个毕业于剑桥大学的诗人，一个欧洲文学史的教授，写了一部关于继父和继女的性爱故事的小说，让所有体面正经的上流社会感到羞愧和不安。不错，单从题材来看，这位贵族诗人教授的小说，的确含有色情和乱伦的成分，注意，仅仅是成分，正如水是由氢原子和氧原子构成的，但我们绝不会把水等同于氧或者氢，后有评论家说，这是一部可以和《尤利西斯》相媲美的伟大作品，越来越多的人和《洛丽塔》相逢，越来越多的人得到了一种战栗而窒息的阅读幸福，《洛丽塔》必然地成为了经典。
故事描述一位中年教授汉伯特不可救药的爱上了房东12岁的女儿洛丽塔,近乎病态的执迷把他引向毁灭的结局.由于小说的题材——乱伦/恋童——为道德社会之禁忌,因而该书岁广泛流传但却遭到持久而激烈的非议.小说在法国遭到短期禁毁,在美国迟至1958年才出版,在澳大利亚则直到1964年还被列为非法书籍
然而小说的影响之大可谓经久不衰,它曾获选纽约公共图书馆1995年"世纪之书"（books of the century）中"当代文学的里程碑"（landmarks of modern literature）类，以及美国蓝灯书屋1998年二十世纪百大英文小说的第四名。"洛丽塔"一词甚至被收入词典,人们约定俗成的用它来形容极富诱惑力的早熟女孩(有人说Lolita这个名字原本指射的是查理卓别林的第二任妻子——未成年的女演员Lillita McMurray)."洛丽塔"本身已经外延为一种现象,一种"病症"
另有一种较为流行的解读是,洛丽塔并不单纯是性的小说.它影射了以欧洲为代表的传统精英文化向以美国为代表的现代流行文化的臣服,或曰老迈的欧洲文明妄图通过劝诱年轻的美国文化而达到复兴,表达的是前者的悲哀无奈和后者的傲慢狂欢。
再附Vladimir Nabokov很独特的文章：
The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more calm than the one he is heading for (at some forty-five hundred heartbeats an hour). I know, however, of a young chronophobiac who experienced something like panic when looking for the first time at homemade movies that had been taken a few weeks before his birth. He saw a world that was practically unchanged—the same house, the same people—and then realized that he did not exist there at all and that nobody mourned his absence. He caught a glimpse of his mother waving from an upstairs, and that unfamiliar gesture disturbed him, as if it were some mysterious farewell. But what particularly frightened him was the sight of a brand-new baby carriage standing there on the porch, with the smug, encroaching air of a coffin; even that was empty, as if, in the reverse course of events, his very bones had disintegrated.
Such fancies are not foreign to young lives. Or, to put it otherwise, first and last things often tend to have an adolscent note—unless, possible, they are directed by some venerable and rigid religion. Nature expects a full-grown man to accept the two black voids, fore and aft, as solidly as he accepts the extraordinary visions in between. Imagination, the supreme delight of the immortal and the immature, should be limited. In order to enjoy life, we should not enjoy it too much.
I rebel against this state of affairs. I feel the urge to take my rebellion outside and picket nature. Over and over again, my mind has made colossal efforts to distinguish the faintest of personal glimmers in the impersonal darkness on both sides of my life. That this darkness is caused merely by the walls of time separating me and my bruised fists from the free world of timelessness is a belief I gladly share with the most gaudily painted savage. I have journeyed back in thought—with thought hopelessly tapering off as I went—to remote regions where I groped for some secret outlet only to discover that the prison of time is spherical and without exists. Short of suicide, I have tried everything. I have doffed my identity in order to pass for a conventional spook and steal into realms that existed before I was conceived. I have mentally endured the degrading company of Victorian lady novelists and retired colonels who remembered having, in former lives, been slave messengers on a Roman road or sages under the willows of Lhasa. I have ransacked my oldest dreams for keys and clues—and let me say at once that I reject completely the vulgar, shabby, fundamentally medieval world of Freud, with its crankish quest for sexual symbols (something like searching for Baconian acrostics in Shakespeare’s works) and its bitter little embryos spying, from their natural nooks, upon the love life of their parents.
Initially, I was unaware that time, so boundless at first blush, was a prison, In probing my childhood (which is the next best to probing one’s eternity) I see the awakening of consciousness as a series of spaced flashes, with the intervals between them gradually diminishing until bright blocks of perception are formed, affording memory a slippery hold. I had learned numbers and speech more or less simultaneously at a very early date, but the inner knowledge that I was I and that my parents were my parents seems to have been established only later, when it was directly associated with my discovering their age in relation to mine. Judging by the strong sunlight that, when I think of that revelation, immediately invades my memory with lobed sun flecks through overlapping patterns of greenery, the occasion my have been my mother’s birthday, in late summer, in the country, and I had asked questions and had assessed the answers I received. All this is as it should be according to the theory of recapitulation; the beginning of reflexive consciousness in the brain of our remotest ancestor must surely have coincided with the dawning of the sense of time.
Thus, when the newly disclosed, fresh and trim formula of my own age, four, was confronted with the parental formulas, thirty-three and twenty-seven, something happened to me. I was given a tremendously invigorating shock. As if subjected to a second baptism, on more divine lines than the Greek Catholic ducking undergone fifty months earlier by a howling, self-drowned half-Victor (my mother, through the half-closed door, behind which an old custom bade parents retreat, managed to correct the bungling archpresbyter, Father Konstantin Vetvenitski), I felt myself plunge abruptly into a radiant and mobile medium that was none other than the pure element of time. One shared it—just as excited bathers share shining seawater—with creatures that were not oneself but that were joined to one by time’s common flow, an environment quite different from the spatial world, which not only man but apes and butterflies could perceive. At that instant, I became acutely aware that the twenty-seven-year-old being, in soft white and pink, holding my left hand, was my mother, and that the thirty-three-year-old being, in hard white and gold, holding my right hand, was my father. Between them, as they evenly progressed, I strutted , and trotted, and strutted again, from sun fleck to sun fleck, along the middle of a path, which I easily identify today with an alley of ornamental oaklings in the park of our country estate, Vyra, in the former Province of St. Petersburg, Russia. Indeed, from my present ridge of remote, isolated, almost uninhabited time, I see my diminutive self as celebrating, on that August day in 1903, the birth of sentiment life. If my left-hand-holder and my right-hand-holder had both been present before in my vague infant world, they had been so under the mask of a tender incognito; but now my father’s attire, the resplendent uniform of the Horse Guards, with that smooth golden swell of cuirass burning upon his chest and back, came out like the sun, and for several years afterward I remained keenly interested in the age of my parents and kept myself informed about it, like a nervous passenger asking the time in order to check a new watch.
My father, let it be noted, had served his term of military training long before I was born, so I suppose he had that day put on the trappings of his old regiment as a festive joke. To a joke, then, I owe my first gleam of complete consciousness—which again has a recapitulatory implications, since the first creatures on earth to become aware of time were also the first creatures to smile.
开头几句经常被人引用，选自他的自传~
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发表于 2006-6-8 20:42:36