NABOKV-L post 0027786, Mon, 4 Jun 2018 06:45:50 -0400

Re: teaching Lolita
It is virtually psychotic that it has to be explained to students that Lolita is about child rape; Humbert says it is, in case one had not noticed. Why does it not have to explained that it is also about murder? As V. S. Pritchett said in one of the first British reviews of the book: "Mr Nabokov's murder is horrible; murder is horrible" (I quote from failing memory from 57 years ago). Why does not every Agatha Christie novel contain a trigger warning for readers that it may contain an account of murder? I scandalised a drift of snowflake psychotherapists the other day by saying I would far rather be sexually abused than murdered.

Anthony Stadlen

-----Original Message-----
From: joseph Aisenberg <vanveen13@SBCGLOBAL.NET>
Sent: Mon, 4 Jun 2018 3:39
Subject: Re: [NABOKV-L] teaching Lolita

I agree with much of this. I've heard numerous people on the BBC and on NPR talk about how when the book is taught it should be emphasized that the story is about a man who rapes a little girl, as if it were necessary always to morally underpin everything so that one can take a socially ameliorating from lesson from it; as if John Ray Jr.'s introduction hadn't parodied this shallow view to the point of utter absurdity. The author Martin Amis has called the book and Nabokov's ouevre in general that dread academic term "problematic." The problem is that the arts are still largely considered a platform for healthy and helpful "messages". For these kinds of readers or film viewers or conossieurs of paintings everything is more or less propaganda. Therefore one might as well plump for sloganeering and positive portrayals of "the other", the right socially oppressed "other" that is--and anything else be damned; even the ancient past must yet again be re-evaluated and found incorrect. I've actually heard academics suggest with moral disdain that Plato victimized his young male students! It's the new form of prissy bourgeois idealism. It's like the old style religious hypocrisy which informed the era of the Hollywood Production Code after 1932. You could not have a married couple cheat on each other or divorce; a criminal was not allowed to go unpunished as this would promote ungodly, extra-legal behavior on the part of the lower orders. Anything real, raw, complicated, human, true, ambiguous, had to be eradicated and papered over with fake solutions which squared everything in socially acceptable ways. Pedophilia has become radioactive in our times, considered worse than murder; social convention demands the children be viewed as spiritually destroyed victims who may have caught the pedophilia bug themselves in some cases. It has been officially decreed that there can be no genuine feelings between child and adult. Any sort of romance between them is seen as an aspect of the pedophile's manipulative "grooming," which merely serves to victimize the prey over again by telling them that whatever they may feel, whatever they've been told is totally untrue and that now they are damaged goods. It's disgusting. Nabokov's art doesn't descend to such inhumane generalizations; forces the reader to split those hairs, look beyond blame, beyond right and wrong to the strangeness of what it means to be a thinking, feeling person in a world we don't really understand, where we are plagued by emotions and needs which don't always fit the easy categorization of middle class notions of normality. Society insists that everything really is simple, that all behavior does fit into those clear cut categories. If it's deemed illegal for an adult to have sexual congress with a person under eighteen years of age, it's rape. The individual circumstances don't matter; whatever the victim may have wanted is ipso facto a delusion because they're not the powerful partner, the adult. Yet our experience as youngsters tells us this isn't always the case, that we may actually have wanted what we weren't supposed to want. Lolita keeps that idea in focus, reminds us of how wondrous and frightening the nature of what our private freedoms and our animal desires make possible, which go so far beyond the rules handed down to us by hypocrites that most people simply refuse to acknowledge the simple facts. Lolita is a great and powerful work of art not simply because of its style but because it gives an elaborate evocation of the contradictory states of human consciousness, played out partly as an ornate game satirizing romanticist cliches and partly as a passionate tragedy about how easy it is for almost any of us to be outfoxed by our own self serving myopia when we want something; how thin the line between tenderness and destructive obsession turns out to be when you're walking it. People want to believe that "we" are absolutely nothing like those we demonize; Lolita shows us that because these demons also turn out to be mere mortals this kind of simple mindedness is just a hackneyed lie we tell ourselves to make our own little cruelties go down smoothly to ourselves.

The fact some will think the above is a justification for pedophilia only makes my point, I think

On Saturday, June 2, 2018 10:50 AM, mscoutur <Maurice.Couturier@UNICE.FR> wrote:

Dear Nabokovians,

Has the debate around reading, teaching or writing about Lolita changed

that much since the novel first came out more than sixty years ago? I

wonder. There are still those who, for ethical reasons, keep arguing

that the novel can only have a bad influence on society, on the students

invited to read it especially, and should therefore be put only with

caution on the academic syllabus or kept out of it completely. With the

present post-Weinstein movements, Lolita is often, too often, considered

as a dirty book. I suspect that if a writer like Borges’ Pierre Ménard

were to try and publish it as a first edition today, he would be unable

to find a publisher for it, even in France. On the other hand, there are

those, most of us, who keep praising the novel for its sublime poetic

dimension and insist that art transcends ethics.

Though, as Anne Dwyer convincingly explains, teaching the novel may be

more difficult than it was forty years ago, I must point out that I was

personally forbidden, as early as 1976, to teach Lolita at the junior

level at the Sorbonne. I taught Lolita at the undergraduate level only

at San Diego State in the eighties, and, despite all the precautions I

took, I encountered some difficulties, but they were minor, probably

because I was French and only a visitor on the campus. In France, I

taught the book only at the graduate level, feeling on safer grounds

with more mature and better educated students.

Brian Boyd says he was disappointed by Anne Dwyer’s article, but I have

a feeling that his views are not so different from hers. Both agree that

Humbert is a perverse, “a cruel wretch”, and Lolita his victim; that

Nabokov shouldn’t be confused with his protagonist and never committed

the evil deeds he describes in his novel; that art transcends ethics

(though they refrain from openly saying so). Yet I tend to have some

reservation about his following statement: “One of the most important

things in human life is freedom, including freedom from manipulation,

from unfair and false persuasion and pressure, and from oppression.

Humbert tries to manipulate and pressure us as he has manipulated

Lolita. We need to learn to resist. Lolita is the supreme exercise in

literature of the challenge of reading against the character narrating.”

I agree with him that, when teaching, one should remind the students

that Humbert’s behavior in the real world is morally and legally

unacceptable, but does it mean that one should give a clinical reading

of the novel? He might almost give the impression of suggesting that

when he calls the therapists to the rescue: “one of the strongest claims

on behalf of Lolita, surely, is that sex abuse therapists find it so

valuable, so insightful, so genuinely therapeutic, such a clear way of

showing the psychology of an abuser. See the attached article by Lucia

Williams, and note her references to the work of Sokhna Fall.”

Following his advice, I read Williams’ interesting article and came

across the following passage: “why is it again that we cannot use the

term love when child sexual abuse is concerned? It is not excessive

morality as pedophiles criticize, but what is at stake is the inequality

of power: an adult who is in a relationship of responsibility or trust

(…) ultimately takes advantage of a child who is still developing –

solely to gratify or satisfy the adult’s needs.” What other terms,

except perversion or sexual greed, can be used to label Humbert’s

passion for Lolita? I agree, of course, with her moral and legal

approach to this difficult problem. Years ago, I ran a creative writing

workshop in Grasse prison; the only prisoners who agreed to participate

were sexual offenders, and more specifically “pointeurs”, pedophiles. I

never tried to make them write about their personal experience, but many

of them felt the urge to do it and often insisted that they truly loved

the girls they had intercourse with, or that they did it with their full

consent, which wasn’t always the case, I am sure. Each time, I used the

same arguments as William does in her article to tell them that it was

ethically and legally wrong to have sexual intercourse with children and

young teenagers but I usually failed to convince them.

Yet, Humbert did love Lolita. Nabokov does his best to underline that,

especially in the Coalmont chapter. As Samuel Johnson said in his

dictionary, the novel as a literary genre is “a small tale, generally of

love.” Modern novelists since Guilleragues, Defoe and Richardson have

endeavored to present a wide spectrum of the different brands and shades

of love and of a large range of perversions that often accompany them;

and Nabokov contributed to this age-old enterprise perhaps more than any

other novelist, as I have tried to show both in my Lacanian study,

Nabokov ou la cruauté du désir (Champ Vallon, 2004), and in my essay on

the poetic dimension of desire in his novels, Nabokov’s Eros or the

Poetics of Desire (Palgrave-Macmillan, 2014), a totally different book.

Lolita isn’t an autobiography but a work of fiction – even if the highly

unreliable and somewhat unbalanced narrator of my latest novel, Le Rapt

de Lolita (Orizons, 2018), argues that it is the autobiography of a

close friend of his in Paris and endeavors to show that Nabokov stole

his manuscript. What I mean here (not in my novel) is that the criteria

to judge Humbert and the book itself can’t be only those I used with the

“pointeurs”, the participants in my creative writing workshop. Lolita is

a moving tragedy, not only for Humbert who is tortured by his perverse

sexual desire for young girls and eventually grows to conceive genuine

love for Lolita, but also to some extent for Nabokov himself whose

figure remains omnipresent in the book. He is one of the discursive

actants of the novel, not only through John Ray’s foreword and his

afterword – genuine “thresholds” of Humbert’s confession which are now

part of the novel itself. One must bear in mind that Nabokov wrote the

article published in the Anchor Review, “On a Book Entitled Lolita”, at

a time when the novel still remained unpublished in the States, and only

months after it was actually banned in France. Later, he insisted that

it be inserted in the subsequent editions of his novel and for obvious

reasons: he refused to be confused with his perverse protagonist and

narrator, and wished to proclaim his eminent esthetic ambitions. Reading

Lolita without taking into account Humbert’s countless signs of bad

faith in the body of the novel, along with the author’s repeated

attempts, inside the text or at its outskirts, to affirm his moral

values and prompt us to read the novel in consequence, amounts in my

opinion to misreading it. That’s how the poetic web of sense is woven in

this marvelous book. This has nothing to do with intentional fallacy. I

would be surrendering to this fallacy if I were to judge the novel only

with the criteria underlined by Nabokov in the afterword and his many

subsequent statements.

One must study the novel in all its complexity and ambiguity: as the

confession of a tormented and cruel pedophile who feels at once guilty

for what he has done but still cherishes the experience as his poetic

text testifies, and who not only abused a little girl, but believes or

wants to believe (not totally with bad faith) that she seduced him,

children being capable of that (not that we should forgive their

abusers, I repeat); as a genuine love story on his part; as a tragedy of

desire, of the cruelty of desire; as a textbook study of pedophilia (why

not?); as a poetic work aiming to show that art may transcend ethics,

even though it has a certain degree of social responsibility, etc. etc.

Only an empathic cum critical approach to the novel can begin to give us

access to its incredible depth. Limiting oneself to one single of these

(and other) options amounts to showing a lack of respect for Nabokov’s

immense achievement. That’s why, of course, teaching the novel

constitutes such a tremendous challenge!

Gilles Deleuze once wrote that “one can’t say a thing and its meaning at

the same time.” This remains true even of such a tyrannical author as

Vladimir Nabokov.

Maurice Couturier


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