The Atlantic Monthly
| December 2005
http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200512/lolita.
Books & Critics
Books
Hurricane
Lolita
Fifty years
ago Vladimir Nabokov published his most notorious novel. Its ravishing
effects can still be felt
by Christopher
Hitchens
.....
The
Annotated Lolita
by Alfred Appel Jr.
(editor)
Vintage
In Azar Nafisi's Reading Lolita in Tehran, in
which young female students meet in secret with Xeroxed copies of
Nabokov's masterpiece on their often chaste and recently chadored
laps, it is at first a surprise to discover how unscandalized the
women are. Without exception, it turns out, they concur with Vera
Nabokov in finding that the chief elements of the story are "its
beauty and pathos." They "identify" with Lolita,
because they can see that she wants above all to be a normal
girl-child; they see straight through Humbert, because he is always
blaming his victim and claiming that it was she who seduced
him. And this perspective-such a bracing change from our
conventional worried emphasis on pedophilia-is perhaps more easily
come by in a state where virgins are raped before execution because
the Koran forbids the execution of virgins; where the censor cuts
Ophelia out of the Russian movie version of Hamlet; where any
move that a woman makes can be construed as lascivious and inciting;
where goatish old men can be gifted with infant brides; and where the
age of "consent" is more like nine. As Nafisi phrases
it,
This was
the story of a twelve-year-old girl who had nowhere to go. Humbert had
tried to turn her into his fantasy, into his dead love, and he had
destroyed her. The desperate truth of Lolita's story is not the rape
of a twelve-year-old by a dirty old man but the confiscation of one
individual's life by another. We don't know what Lolita would have
become if Humbert had not engulfed her. Yet the novel, the finished
work, is hopeful, beautiful even, a defense not just of beauty but of
life Warming up and suddenly inspired, I added that in fact
Nabokov had taken revenge on our own solipsizers; he had taken revenge
on the Ayatollah Khomeini
It's extraordinary to think that the author of those anti-tyrannical
classics Bend Sinister and Invitation to a Beheading,
who would surely have felt extreme pleasure at this tribute, can be
posthumously granted such an unexpected yet-when you reflect on
it-perfectly intelligible homage. In his own essay on the fate of
Lolita, Nabokov recalled a publisher who warned him that if he
helped the author get it into print, they would both go straight to
jail. And one of the many, many pleasures of Alfred Appel's masterly
introduction and annotation is the discovery that Nabokov did not
realize that Maurice Girodias and the Olympia Press were specialists
in-well, shall we just say "erotica"?-when he let them
have the manuscript. (The shock and awe surrounding its publication
were later well netted by the great lepidopterist in one of John
Shade's cantos in Pale Fire: "It was a year of tempests,
Hurricane / Lolita swept from Florida to Maine.") Innocence of
that kind is to be treasured.
And innocence, of course, is the problem to begin with. If Dolores
Haze, whose first name means suffering and grief, that "dolorous
and hazy darling," had not been an innocent, there would be
nothing tragic in the tale. (Azar Nafisi is someone who, in spite of
her acuity and empathy, fails what I call the Martin Amis test. Amis
once admitted that he had read the novel carefully before noticing
that in its "foreword"-written not by the unreliable
Humbert but by "John Ray, Jr., Ph.D."-we learn that Lolita
has died in childbirth. She's over before she's begun. That's where
the yearning search for a normal life and a stable marriage got
her. I fear that the young ladies of Tehran missed that crucial,
callous postdate/update sentence as well.)
Then we must approach the question of how innocent we are in
all this. Humbert writes without the smallest intention of titillating
his audience. The whole narrative is, after all, his extended
jailhouse/madhouse plea to an unseen jury. He has nothing but disgust
for the really pornographic debauchee Quilty, for whose murder he has
been confined. But he does refer to him as a "brother," and
at one point addresses us, too, as "Reader! Bruder!,"
which is presumably designed to make one think of Baudelaire's address
of Les Fleurs du Mal to "Hypocrite
lecteur,-mon semblable,-mon fr่re!" I once
read of an interview given by Roman Polanski in which he described
listening to a lurid radio account of his offense even as he was
fleeing to the airport. He suddenly realized the trouble he was in, he
said, when he came to appreciate that he had done something for which
a lot of people would furiously envy him. Hamlet refers to Ophelia as
a nymph ("Nymph, in thy orisons, be all my sins
remembered"), but she is of marriageable age, whereas a nymphet
is another thing altogether.
Actually, it is impossible to think of employing Lolita for
immoral or unsavory purposes, and there is now a great general
determination to approach the whole book in an unfussed, grown-up,
broad-minded spirit. "Do not misunderstand me," said Amis
p่re when he reviewed the first edition, "if I say that one
of the troubles with Lolita is that, so far from being too
pornographic, it is not pornographic enough." When he wrote that,
his daughter, Sally, was a babe in arms, and now even those innocuous
words seem fraught with implication. This doesn't necessarily alter
the case, but neither can I forget Sally's older brother, who
wrote,
Parents
and guardians of twelve-year-old girls will have noticed that their
wards have a tendency to be difficult. They may take Humbert's word
for it that things are much more difficult-are in fact entirely
impossible-when your twelve-year-old girl is also your
twelve-year-old girlfriend. The next time that you go out with your
daughter, imagine you are going out with your daughter.
When I first read this novel, I had not had the experience of having a
twelve-year-old daughter. I have had that experience twice since,
which is many times fewer than I have read the novel. I daresay I
chortled, in an outraged sort of way, when I first read, "How
sweet it was to bring that coffee to her, and then deny it until she
had done her morning duty." But this latest time I found myself
almost congealed with shock. What about the fatherly visit to the
schoolroom, for example, where Humbert is allowed the privilege of
sitting near his (wife's) daughter in class:
I
unbuttoned my overcoat and for sixty-five cents plus the permission to
participate in the school play, had Dolly put her inky, chalky,
red-knuckled hand under the desk. Oh, stupid and reckless of me no
doubt, but after the torture I had been subjected to, I simply had to
take advantage of a combination that I knew would never occur
again."
Or this, when the child runs a high fever: "She was shaking from
head to toe. She complained of a painful stiffness in the upper
vertebrae-and I thought of poliomyelitis as any American parent
would. Giving up all hope of intercourse "
Forgive me, hypocrite lecteur, if I say that I still laughed
out loud at the deadpan way in which Nabokov exploded that land mine
underneath me. And of course, as Amis fils half admits in his
words about "parents and guardians," Lolita is not
Humbert's daughter. If she were, the book probably would have been
burned by the hangman, and its author's right hand sliced off and fed
to the flames. But, just as Humbert's mind is on a permanent
knife-edge of sexual mania, so his creator manages to tread the
vertiginous path between incest, by which few are tempted, and
engagement with pupating or nymphlike girls, which will not lose
its frisson. (You will excuse me if, like Humbert, I dissolve
into French when euphemism is required.) For me the funniest line in
the book-because it is so farcical-comes in the moment after the
first motel rape, when the frenzied Humbert, who has assumed at least
the authority and disguise of fatherhood, is "forced to devote a
dangerous amount of time (was she up to something downstairs?) to
arranging the bed in such a way as to suggest the abandoned nest of a
restless father and his tomboy daughter, instead of an ex-convict's
saturnalia with a couple of fat old whores." None of this
absurdity allows us to forget-and Humbert himself does not allow us
to forget-that immediately following each and every one of the
hundreds of subsequent rapes the little girl weeps for quite a long
time
How complicit, then, is Nabokov himself? The common
joking phrase among adult men, when they see nymphets on the street or
in the park or, nowadays, on television and in bars, is "Don't
even think about it." But it is very clear that Nabokov
did think about it, and had thought about it a lot. An earlier
novella, written in Russian and published only after his
death-The Enchanter-centers on a jeweler who hangs around
playgrounds and forces himself into gruesome sex and marriage with
a vachelike mother, all for the sake of witnessing her death
and then possessing and enjoying her twelve-year-old daughter. (I note
one correspondence I had overlooked before: the hapless old bag in
The Enchanter bears many unappetizing scars from the surgeon's
knife, and when Humbert scans Lolita's statistics-height, weight,
thigh measurements, IQ, and so forth-he discovers that she still has
her appendix and says to himself, "Thank God." You do not
want to think about that for very long either.) And then there
is, just once, a hint of incest so elaborate and so deranged that you
can read past it, as many critics have, before going back and
whistling with alarm.
the
thought that with patience and luck I might have her produce
eventually a nymphet with my blood in her exquisite veins, a Lolita
the Second, who would be eight or nine around 1960, when I would still
be dans la force d'age; indeed, the telescopy of my mind, or un-mind,
was strong enough to distinguish in the remoteness of time a vieillard
encore vert-or was it green rot?-bizarre, tender, salivating Dr.
Humbert, practicing on supremely lovely Lolita the Third the art of
being a granddad.
Arresting, as well as disgusting, to suddenly notice that Lolita (who
died giving birth to a stillborn girl, for Christ's sake) would have
been seventy this year However, I increasingly think that
Nabokov's celebrated, and tiresomely repeated, detestation of Sigmund
Freud must itself be intended as some kind of acknowledgment. If he
thought "the Viennese quack" and "Freudian voodooism"
were so useless and banal, why couldn't he stay off the subject, or
the subtext?
I could
very well do with a little rest in this subdued, frightened-to-death
rocking chair, before I drove to wherever the beast's lair was-and
then pulled the pistol's foreskin back, and then enjoyed the orgasm of
the crushed trigger. I was always a good little follower of the
Viennese medicine man
Many a true word is spoken in jest, especially about the kinship
between eros and thanatos. The two closest glimpses
Humbert gives us of his own self-hatred are not without their death
wish-made explicit in the closing paragraphs-and their excremental
aspects: "I am lanky, big-boned, wooly-chested Humbert Humbert,
with thick black eyebrows and a queer accent, and a cesspoolful of
rotting monsters behind his slow boyish smile." Two hundred pages
later: "The turquoise blue swimming pool some distance behind the
lawn was no longer behind that lawn, but within my thorax, and my
organs swam in it like excrements in the blue sea water in Nice."
And then there's the offhand aside "Since (as the
psychotherapist, as well as the rapist, will tell you) the limits and
rules of such girlish games are fluid " in which it takes a
moment to notice that "therapist" and "the rapist"
are in direct apposition.
Once you start to take a shy hand in the endless game of decoding the
puns and allusions and multiple entendres (the Umberto echoes, if I
may be allowed) that give this novel its place next to Ulysses,
you are almost compelled to agree with Freud that the unconscious
never lies. Swinburne's poem Dolores sees a young lady
("Our Lady of Pain") put through rather more than young Miss
Haze. Lord Byron's many lubricities are never far away; in the initial
stages of his demented scheme Humbert quotes from Childe Harold's
Pilgrimage: "To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee and print
on thine soft cheek a parent's kiss," and when we look up the
lines we find they are addressed to Harold's absent daughter (who,
like Byron's child and Nabokov's longest fiction, is named Ada).
Humbert's first, lost girlfriend, Annabel, is perhaps not unrelated to
Byron's first wife, Anne Isabella, who was known as "Annabella,"
and she has parents named Leigh, just like Byron's ravished
half-sister Augusta. The Haze family physician, who gives Humbert the
sleeping pills with which he drugs Lolita preparatory to the first
rape at the Enchanted Hunters Hotel, is named Dr. Byron. And while we
are on the subject of physicians, remember how Humbert is recommended
to "an excellent dentist":
Our
neighbor, in fact. Dr. Quilty. Uncle or cousin, I think, of the
playwright. Think it will pass? Well, just as you wish. In the fall I
shall have him "brace" her, as my mother used to say. It may
curb Lo a little.
Another Quilty, with his own distinctive hint of sadism.
"Sade's Justine was twelve at the start," as Humbert
reflects, those three so ordinary words "at the start"
packing a huge, even gross, potential weight These clues are
offset by more innocuous puns ("We had breakfast in the township
of Soda, pop 1001") and by dress rehearsals for puns, as when
Humbert decides to decline a possible joke about the Mann Act, which
forbids the interstate transport of girls for immoral purposes.
(Alexander Dolinin has recently produced a fascinating article on the
contemporaneous abduction of a girl named Sally Horner, traces of the
reportage of which are to be found throughout
Lolita.)
All is apparently redeemed, of course, by the atrocious punishment
that Nabokov inflicts for this most heinous of humanity's offenses.
The molester in The Enchanter was hit by a truck, and Humbert
dies so many little deaths-eroding his heart muscles most
pitifully-that in some well-wrought passages we almost catch ourselves
feeling sorry for him. But the urge to punish a crime ("Why dost
thou lash that whore?" Shakespeare makes us ask ourselves in
King Lear) is sometimes connected to the urge to commit it. Naming
a girls' school for Beardsley must have taken a good deal of
reflection, with more Sade than Lewis Carroll in it, but perhaps there
is an almost inaudible note of redemption at Humbert and Lolita's last
meeting (the only time, as he ruefully minutes, that she ever calls
him "honey"), when "I looked and looked at her, and
knew as clearly as I know I am to die, that I loved her more than
anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere
else."
The most unsettling suggestion of all must be the latent idea that
nymphetomania is, as well as a form of sex, a form of love.
Alfred Appel's most sage advice is to make yourself slow down when
reading Lolita, not be too swiftly ravished and caught up.
Follow this counsel and you will find that-more than almost any
other novel of our time-it keeps the promise of genius and never
presents itself as the same story twice. I mentioned the relatively
obvious way in which it strikes one differently according to one's
age; and if aging isn't a theme here, with its connotation of death
and extinction, then I don't know what is. But there are other ways in
which Lolita is, to annex Nabokov's word, "telescopic."
Looking back on it, he cited a critic who "suggested that
Lolita was the record of my love affair with the romantic novel,"
and continued, "The substitution 'English language' for 'romantic
novel' would make this elegant formula more correct." That's
profoundly true, and constitutes the most strenuous test of the
romantic idea that worshipful time will forgive all those who love,
and who live by, language. After half a century this work's
"transgressiveness" makes every usage of that term in our
etiolated English departments seem stale, pallid, and
domesticated.
The URL
for this page is
http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200512/lolita.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
All material copyright The Atlantic Monthly Group. All rights
reserved.