Recent news came in of moronic zealots vandalizing Vladimir Nabokov's childhood home, now the Nabokov Museum in St. Petersburg, with graffiti, no doubt misspelled, accusing the late great one of pedophilia. These accusations have been around ever since Lolita was published, of course, vividly illustrating the divide between the literate, who understand what a novel is and does, and their illiterate opponents, who don't; and the latter are legion. "Were you a terrorist?" I--the author of a novel about terrorism--have been asked. Therefore, by their reading, Bulgakov was a satanist; Tolstoy an adulterer (well...maybe not the best example); Gogol a giant self-propelled nose; Dostoevsky an anarchist. The point may seem too obvious to make, but not to the troglodytes. 

The irony here, or one of the ironies, is that VN would be astounded by the mere existence of a Nabokov Museum in his childhood home.