To the Editor: I will spare your readers the details of what was done to me by an older man at a young age in the name of love (it lacks hilarity and does not lend itself to brilliant prose), and I will spare them the precise number of women I am personally acquainted with who experienced similar degradations. But I will tell you that Emily Mortimer's giddy praise for "Lolita" made me literally sick. I'm too old now, but someone must write a comparably "exhilarating and paradoxically cleansing" novel that will allow us all to "relinquish concern with right and wrong and just to feel things as another person feels them." The dissolution of one's very self is an experience perhaps impossible to portray, unfortunately, but that's the only novel that would shake the degeneracy and callousness that marks our engagement with "Lolita." This is not a moralistic condemnation. It is a pure human expression of truth.