The first in series of literature columns, Tallie Kane explores the attitudes behind controversial literature

It’s one of the books that constantly seems to creep out of the woodwork, and is often the instigator of a debate that either ends in reluctant agreement or just never ends.

I personally love Lolita, but I can understand why it sparked debate on the boundaries of censorship on its release in 1955.

The tragicomedy by Vladimir Nabokov, describes the relationship between a middle aged college professor Humbert Humbert and the twelve-year-old girl under his care, Lolita. The novel describes scenes of statutory rape, as romanticised by the protagonist, which caused severe disturbance in the hearts of the public and critics alike.

The opinions varied, from the call for its withdrawal from shelves by the (London) Sunday Times - which called it "the filthiest book [they had] ever read" - to those who completely excused the author. The author Robertson Davies argued that Lolita was “not the corruption of an innocent child by a cunning adult, but the exploitation of a weak adult by a corrupt child”, focusing on the manipulative behaviour seen in the young character, rather than the sexual obsession of Humbert.

The book undoubtedly draws the argument of where the line between literature and pornography should be placed. I believe that it is the role of the reader that defines this, and their expectations before engaging in the material. What makes Lolita a literary rather than a pornographic work, is that it makes the reader feel uneasy and disturbed, even intrigued of the way that they receive the book. That they are forced to reconsider previously held opinions about this underdog of society, and may even feel disgusted with themselves that they might just sympathise with the protagonist, when you feel that you rationally shouldn’t.

That was 50 years ago; surely our nation wouldn’t react on the publication of books that deal with issues that are equally as uncomfortable? Do we take them seriously, or pass it off as an authors’ attempt to cause sensationalism for the sake of it? Should we award those who “push the literary boat out"?

Our approach to books that deal with sex in a less than savoury way is to laugh at them like immature schoolchildren who have just discovered the sexual reproduction system.

While the French celebrate the art of written intercourse, we come off as humoured prudes. The Bad Sex Award is how we receive work which has less than conventional descriptions of sex: the winner of this years’ award, Norman Mailer, compared the male genitalia to ‘a coil of excrement’ in his novel exploring the life of Adolf Hitler through the eyes of its Secret Service narrator.

Although his description of a sex act is undoubtedly a grotesque one, does this subsequently mean that the credibility of the writing should be ignored, or is it a stunt for media attention?

In France, they award creators "going beyond all forms of censure and who [defy] the moral or political order against all forms of intellectual terrorism," with the Prix Sade, a peer-reviewed prize that looks at literature which is nothing less than controversial. The recent winner, Dennis Cooper - nicknamed ‘The most dangerous writer in America’ - won this year’s award with his novel The Sluts which describes, in detail, homosexual sex scenes, violence, teenage sex and drug taking.

Other entrants include the French author Alain Robbe-Grillet, whose book Un Roman Sentimental details a father’s grooming of his daughter, has to be sold shrink-wrapped with a warning of the sensitive content printed boldly across the front cover.

Are they going too far? Are they trying to recreate the sensation of Lolita in the vain hope that their work may be remembered and be named a classic? Or are they just writing what needs to be written? Could there ever be another Lolita?