When describing his married life with Valeria in Paris in the 1930s, Humbert employs both imagery and allusion:
This state of affairs lasted from 1935 to 1939. Her only asset was a muted nature which did help to produce an odd sense of comfort in our small squalid flat: two rooms, a hazy view in one window, a brick wall in the other, a tiny kitchen, a shoe-shaped bath tub, within which I felt like Marat but with no white-necked maiden to stab me. We had quite a few cozy evenings together, she deep in her Paris-Soir, I working at a rickety table. We went to movies, bicycle races and boxing matches.
He describes their home together using sparse imagery, noting various details of their “squalid flat,” including the “hazy view in one window,” the view of a “brick wall” in the other window, and the "shoe-shaped bath tub" in their small bathroom. While lying in the bath, he claims that he felt like “Marat but with no white-necked maiden to stab me.” Here, he alludes to Jean-Paul Marat, a politician and writer who became famous for his pivotal role as a leader in the French Revolution. While lying in a bathtub to treat a painful skin-condition, Marat was assassinated by a young woman named Charlotte Corday, who stabbed him in the heart with a knife. Through this allusion, Humbert compares his situation to that of Marat, suggesting with a typically macabre sense of humor that he would rather be murdered by a beautiful “maiden” than live his altogether conventional married life with his own wife.
Humbert employs vivid imagery in a scene in which he recounts the death of Charlotte, who is hit by a car while crossing the street in front of their home after discovering his journal:
I have to put the impact of an instantaneous vision into a sequence of words; their physical accumulation in the page impairs the actual flash, the sharp unity of impression: Rug-heap, car, old man-doll, Miss O.’s nurse running with a rustle, a half-empty tumbler in her hand, back to the screened porch—where the propped-up, imprisoned, decrepit lady herself may be imagined screeching, but not loud enough to drown the rhythmical yaps of the Junk setter walking from group to group—from a bunch of neighbors already collected on the sidewalk, near the bit of checked stuff, and back to the car [...]
Previously, Charlotte rushed out of the house after reading Humbert’s journal and learning of his attraction to and pursuit of Lolita. Distressed and distracted, Charlotte is killed when a car, swerving to avoid a dog, hits her instead. Here, a confused and dazed Humbert describes the scene in front of their home—the “instantaneous vision” that he at first struggles to make sense of—with vivid imagery. He details what he sees in the form of a list: “Rug-heap, car, old man-doll, Miss O.’s nurse running with a rustle, a half-empty tumbler in her hand.” He presents a fragmented vision of the confusing scene, at first misidentifying an old man as a doll and the body of his own deceased wife as a “rug-heap” on the ground. In addition to various visual details, he notes the “screeching” of the old lady across the street, which is “not loud enough to drown out the rhythmical yaps of the Junk setter walking from group to group.” The imagery he employs here emphasizes the chaotic and confusing nature of the scene before him.