Close reading: Speak, Memory: Chapter 8, Section 4

The last passage of this section, #4 of chapter 8, is particularly interesting to me, primarily because I am having a hard time making sense of it. 

"...he was, really, a very pure, very decent human being, whose private principles were as strict as his grammar and whose bracing diktanti I recall with joy: kolokololiteyshchiki perekolotili vikarabkavshihsya vihuholey, "the church-bell casters slaughtered the desmans that had scrambled out." Many years later, at the American Museum of Natural History in New York, I happened to quote that tongue twister to a zoologist who had asked me if Russian was as difficult as commonly supposed. We met again several months later and he said: "You know, I've been thinking a lot about those Muscovite muskrats: why were they said to have scrambled out? Had they been hiding or hibernating, or what?"

So, for a couple reasons, this passage is odd: diktanti means "dictation"; assuming that Lenski, Nabokov's tutor, is dictating this strange scene to him, it is meant to hold some kind of advisory significance. This brings one to the question of what this line is figuratively trying to say, as, literally, it says if you are a rodent, don't run out of the church bell when it is sounded because you will be killed. It may be a commentary on violence and religion; even though most religion preaches against unnecessary violence, those sounding the bell--the symbol of the church's presence--still senselessly kill mice or muskrats who are fleeing from them. The fact that it is a "bracing" dictation is what brings me to the conclusion that it is a warning to Nabokov from his tutor. It may also be taken less literally and more broadly, simply expressing to young Nabokov the sense of violence which permeates everyday life. The fact that Nabokov highlights the zoologist’s quote at the end of the section seems to purposely draw attention to his missing the point—but for what intention, I don’t know. It does not seem that Nabokov is poking fun or trying to make the zoologist sound stupid. Perhaps he is trying to make the reader see that “normal” people observe certain things so intently that they miss they real meaning behind a parable or a “dictation.” He may be trying to highlight his own talent with puzzles here by highlighting someone else's complete misreading of them.

Charlotte's Suicide (pgs. 95-97)

I barely heard the door open; I had become so engrossed in the letter writing--my final goodbyes, of course, warranted this focus--that I barely heard him enter. He stood in the doorway, that putrid, despicable man, calling after me as if I was the light of his European life, really and truly, and I could not bare to hear in that joyous sounding note any hint of genuineness. It was all over. I couldn't bare to live with him, not anymore, knowing the lies that guided this life.

"Charlotte, dear..." His second call was crucifying. I hadn't wanted to, but with this second intrusion I turned and shot him the dirtiest look I could muster, seeing through him; there was nothing to see there, not even the shell of a man. He would never realize the pain he'd caused. There was no way to change things. I rifled off in agony. 

"The Haze woman, the big bitch, the old cat, the obnoxious mamma, the--the old stupid Haze is no longer your dupe." Not your worthless puppet anymore. "She has--she has..." I felt the tears rolling down my face and quivered in defeat.

He sputtered and flubbered at me. "What--dearest--what are you speaking about? Charlotte, darling, I--there is--"

"You're a monster. You're a detestable, abominable, criminal fraud." I couldn't get the burning lust of his for that little bitch out of my mind--it incurred painful images, indescribable. "If you come near--I'll scream out the window. Get back!"

"Darling, honestly, whatever you may be thinking right now--rest your nerves and look me in the eyes. There will be time for--"

"I am leaving tonight. This is all yours. Only you'll never, never see that miserable brat again. Get out of this room."

This seemed to wound him, but healed me none. I thought hard through the clouds of hysteria if there was anything I had failed to take care of before leaving this home behind. The letters had been written to family, friends, politely explaining the sudden move--it was for the best, of course, to be nearer to Dolores's camp in case of any emergency matters--and I had written a letter to the folks at the camp explaining this, as well, and I had begun packing, and I would not stop one second more to look at that painful oaf. I heard his feet ascending the stairs. Oh, and our vacation! Our little getaway to the Enchanted Hunters. I had made it in such excitement--excitement since defiled and destroyed. I found the number of the hotel and dialed it so rapidly I nearly missed the last number. It had to be done--everything, erased.

After I had been on the phone, avoiding any confrontation with the people at the hotel--I did not want to reveal any suffering at the cancellation--I could not help but get up and pace the parlor. What would I do, what could I do? There was nothing for me here anymore. In fact, there was nothing for me anywhere. That little stain, that sniveling daughter of mine had ruined everything. First, Henry was taken from me, and now what replaced his love was tainted and worn down beyond any recognition of its first sparks. I packed my bags in blind resignation but, in reality, I wanted absolutely no close proximity with Lo ever again. I didn't see any way I could live with her or look her in the face and not think about that disgusting eastern brute upstairs, now descending... I could hear him in the kitchen and sat down at my desk again. I felt light-headed--I needed to breathe. 

After a short time which was lost in hysteric clouds, I could feel his eyes behind me. They were boring into my skin, and I felt ugly. I felt nothing but filth at the knowledge of his gaze. I felt like shit--like death--like nothing at all. Emptiness could not describe. My hand moved without conscious thought, drilling lines into the paper and into the desk.

He babbled something, some poor excuse, into the air of the parlor, but my ears could not receive it. My mind was made up and there was little to do now but follow the guide of instinct. 

His presence was gone again. It would be gone forever soon, and I could sleep. No more Humbert, no more Dolores. No more lies. No more book club, no more pretension. No more anything. Nothing but sleep. Final and grateful sleep. 

Things sounded in the kitchen again, but they were far off and echoed as if the earth itself creaked in a cavern somewhere. I stood up and let my feet walk me to the front door. The road buzzed and whirred and called my name through the screen. Gently and without hesitation, I felt my hands guiding the door forward and my legs carrying me down the steps. The blacktop of the road felt faint.

No more, no more, no more. Something came towards me, so I breathed.

"A Literary Dinner"

"A Literary Dinner" (152) is, as a whole, a sort of commentary. It opens with an invitation from a certain Dr. James's wife to the narrator to eat her husband. Knowing Nabokov's habit of creating puzzles in his writing, one can immediately make astute observations: the doctor is an educated, well-traveled man--the narrator finds this out when he "consumes" the doctor and relives his travels ("I ate--and in Egypt the sunsets were swell;/ The Russians were doing remarkably well"). It appears, though, that the doctor has trouble remembering who he met on these travels, and a few lines later, the narrator clues us in that "[the wife's] hobby was People, [the doctor's] hobby was Life," suggesting that the doctor's wife was more well-versed in social manners, while the doctor was best at observing the physical setting. The brain is said to be "nut-flavored" and "crisp," suggesting the narrator enjoys eating it; this organ, of course, is the one which has processed the bulk of the doctor's travels and is likely flavored very well with culture, figuratively speaking. The heart, however, "resembled a shiny brown date"--that is, it looks like a big raisin. This suggests that the heart has not been properly prepared and has simply shriveled up. The narrator does not seem to eat the heart, and he "stowed all the studs on the edge of [his] plate"--suggesting that there are other hard or metal components of the doctor's body which he does not eat.

The poorly prepared heart could suggest several things--that the doctor did not utilize it properly during his waking life; that it was overworked but not sincerely; that doctors simply do not possess the sort of passion that could properly "cook" a heart; what Nabokov means by this metaphor is not entirely clear, but the suggestion that the brain is well-used and the heart is not is there.

What strikes me as Nabokovian of this poem is the characters' focus on aesthetics and appearances--the doctor has read the "great book of the week," has travelled to many places and seems to appear "cultured"; the wife, in turn, is trying to preserve good manners while asking the narrator to devour her husband ("her face making room/for one of those pink introductory smiles"). As far as Lolita goes, this preservation and pumping up of image reflects, for me, the preoccupation with proper behavior in Charlotte, as well as Humbert's failure to maintain his image as a father figure. The (presumably) American preoccupation with being "cultured" and "European" (or just "eastern" in general) reminds me of the American fascination with Humbert as a foreigner in Lolita, as well. Finally, there is a blanketing feeling of needing to see through the obscenity and (in the poem's case) unreality of pseudo-cannibalism to discover the deeper commentary in the poetry--while in Lolita the reader must see through the tale of a child molester to garner any further understanding of the text as a piece of literature.

Nabokov's Game of Morality

"Humbert Humbert continually forces us to maintain a double perspective by calling on us to pass moral and legal judgment upon him as a man and aesthetic judgment upon him as an artist" (Winston, 421). Mathew Winston has a good point--readers are stuck in this dual position for the duration of Lolita, and it can be easy as human beings, empathetic and vulnerable as we are, to lose the dividing line between child molester and lover, often feeling some sort of remorse for the sad end of Humbert's love-game. By using Winston's central idea, that the criminal and writer share similar minds (421), one understands the constant confusion their morals experience when reading Humbert's actions. It can be said that Nabokov is seeking to draw our attention to these similarities, though why that draw is made is hard to set in stone. One can easily say that Humbert recites the past in a literary way because both writer and criminal share the same emotional drives, but it seems that Nabokov has made Humbert more conscious of his recitation than the normal lunatic. In rewriting the events that comprise Lolita, Humbert seeks to evoke certain emotions in us which trigger empathy, in turn drawing attention to the semantics of morality; what we view as "right" and "wrong" and why exactly we view it that way.

Cartoony Hum: The Road to Lolita + In Search of Aesthetic Bliss

In reading "The Road to Lolita, or the Americanization of an Emigre," there is much talk of the trite in relation to the novel--comic books and comic book culture being a large part of both the novel's world (or setting) and the world which influenced Nabokov's writing. Though the article makes it clear that Nabokov favors the word over the image, and he is not a fan of photojournalism, there is a similarity between his manipulative style of fiction and the manipulative art of comic book writing. There seems to be a much closer work-to-author relation in Nabokov's style of "puzzle-fiction"; the literary work which has an acute awareness of its manipulative abilities and plays them to the fullest extent. The comic book plays hard on the reader's perception, as well, making use of the art of images, the art of words, and the art of references. I think in a way that Lolita itself could be seen as adapted from a comic strip: it is full of cliches, pop culture references, odd characters who would be visually very unique if cartooned. Nabokov not only utilizes pop culture as a crutch for the book's world--it seems he has taken much influence from the world of pop culture which he "loathes." In many ways, Humbert's justifications play on comic book imagery, as well--they are cartoonish in their dramatic tendencies and their cliches, and they seem to be made to appeal to a large, "common" audience who would likely read the Sunday "funnies."

Just as comics create a constant awareness of the author's authorial manipulation, as written in "In Search of Aesthetic Bliss," "Nabokov forces his reader to be aware at all times of Nabokov shaping and manipulating and mocking his characters, and his reader." The comic utilizes frames, the gutter (the space between frames), and exaggerated and cartoonish illustrations all to mar the reader's perception of the story itself. Similarly, Humbert uses the Foreword by "John Jay Jr.," Humbert's constant intrusion in his account, and the drama of his language to sway the reader's perceptions and morals into a particular vein of thinking.

Another interesting point in "In Search..." actually comes from Appel: "[Humbert's] desire to find fantasy in reality and his perseverance in the face of insurmountable obstacles is so insistent that, despite the fact..." (this sentence seems to be cut off, unfortunately). However, the sentiment here is that Humbert is gaining the reader's empathy through his cartoonish longing and sincerity. His blind perseverance and his search for something "real," despite constant reminders that he is losing ground on his fantasies, gives the reader and thus the "jurors" in his case an empathetic feeling which comes from his cartoon-like stubbornness.

The Last Grasps of Empathy for H.H.

As Lolita continues to become a character of her own, there are subtle signs and obvious occurrences which signal Humbert’s losing her, both mentally and physically, that aid in establishing justification for his actions. In the beginning of chapter 18, when Humbert describes his  “hallucinations,” he attempts to blame their occurrence on outside interference—“I do not know what she or he, or both had put into my liquor but one night I felt sure somebody was tapping on the door of our cabin”—shying away from his own overwhelming paranoia. Humbert’s mere mention of someone fooling with him gives the reader some sense of empathy towards Hum, whose poor planning and blind love leave him feeling infringed upon by the outside world; one which seems constantly out to get him, and surely the common reader can relate to his feeling—if not criminally, emotionally.  Even though he is deserving of the stress, and obviously destined to lose his Lolita rightly, the reader feels empathy for the man that is losing his grip on his love.

Again, in the nature overwhelming feelings, the empathetic reader truly feels the heartbreak in the scene where Humbert consoles Lolita to come back with him, away from Dick Schiller, to live with him for the rest of her life, and her simple reply is, “No, honey, no.” This scene may be the only one in the entire novel where the reader feels blind sadness right alongside Humbert, as he “[breaks] into the hottest tears [he] had ever shed.” When Humbert, in the wake of Lo’s answer, only notices that “She had never called [him] honey before” (279), the reader truly understands his maniacal blindness, his pure infatuation and the utmost dwellings of his passion. Though he is a child molesting cynic riddled with lunacy, the universal sentiments of heartbreak soften the blows of his crimes and have the reader reconsidering really how poor his initial intentions for Lolita were.

Touching upon the final section—the hunt and final execution of Clare Quilty—we are again visited by obvious signs of Humbert’s mental deterioration. When venturing to Grimm Road to find  and kill Quilty, Humbert describes the day: “…the sun was visible again, burning like a man, and the birds screamed in the drenched and streaming trees.” This memory exudes a severe sense of delusion; one which, if the account works as fodder for the jury, could easily help sway them into believing Humbert’s actions were performed on account of insanity rather than pure, malevolent hatred. He also matter-of-factly informs the reader that “[he] had overdone the alcoholic stimulation business” (293), further backing the sentiment of mental impairment which flows through this scene and those following where, with trust Chum, Humbert will chase Quilty around his house trying to finish him. He goes on, on the following page, describing his attempts to avoid any unfortunate accident in his quest for murder: “Consequently, for at least five minutes I went about—lucidly insane, crazily calm, an enchanted and very tight hunter—turning whatever keys in whatever locks there were and pocketing them with my free left hand” (294). Humbert describes himself as crazy, a lunatic—and his actions here certainly exemplify those self-assigned adjectives. So, as readers and as “jurors,” we are certainly in the position to question: Was Humbert really acting in all capacities of his right mind at the time of the murder? This leaves room for doubt and, in turn, room for justification.

Humbert, You Dog: 7 Canine Appearances in Lolita

--Dogs play some part in Humbert's psyche, as he remembers them from his childhood: "I grew, a happy, healthy child in a bright world of illustrated books, clean sand, orange trees, friendly dogs, sea vistas and smiling faces" (10).
--The limousine driver carting Humbert to Charlotte's house nearly runs over a dog: "Speaking of sharp turns: we almost ran over a meddlesome suburban dog (one of those who lie in wait for cars) as we swerved into Lawn Street" (36).
--When Humbert tells Lo to "Take it easy": "(Down, poor beast, down.) Also, though the reference is not obviously canine, I think it is worth mentioning in light of the first near-roadkill experience: "Presently, making a sizzling sound with her lips, she started complaining of pains, said she could not sit, said I had torn something inside her. The sweat rolled down my neck, and we almost ran over some little animal or other that was crossing the road with tail erect" (141).
--Humbert refers to himself as "nature's faithful hound" (135).
--Humbert does once refer to Lo as a "little bitch"--"She would be, figuratively speaking, wagging her tiny tail, her whole behind in fact as little bitches do" (164).
--Immediately after, Humbert's description of Lo sitting in his lap rings a canine bell--"I liked the cool feel of armchair leather against my massive nakedness as I held her in my lap" (165).
--Humbert complains when Lolita plays with a dog, not him--ironically after considering the last quote--"There she was playing with a damned dog, not me" (236).

Like the dead, the dogs are abundant in Lolita and seem to be a pertinent theme to touch upon; in what depth, I am not sure, though it may be smart to pay attention to the way Humbert illustrates himself and Lo as dogs most often, but not too many other (if any) people.

Dead Folks in Lolita

--The sentiment that "no ghosts walk" in the beginning of the book is meant to say that all characters who play a part in the story are no longer dwelling amongst the living in a visceral sense; though, this is not entirely true, as those characters are kept alive and technically amongst the living by their place in this story, which will likely be read by many to come.
--Humbert is dead when this story is being read. We know this because John Jay Jr. says in the foreword that "'Humbert Humbert,' [the author of Lolita], had died in legal captivity, of coronary thrombosis, on November 16th, 1952, a few days before his trial was scheduled to start" (3).
--Lolita herself is dead. John Jay Jr. also graces us with this information in the foreword, saying "Mrs. 'Richard F Schiller' died in childbed giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952, in Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest" (5).
--Annabel, the initial object of Humbert's love, died four months after their attempt at consummation, of a disease called "typhus in Corfu" (13).
--Charlotte is dead. Though her death scene is described on page 98 ("...the top of her head a porridge of bone, brains, bronze hair and blood"), the first time that Humbert declares that she is dead is when he says to Lolita, "your mother is dead" (141).
--Valeria and Maximovich are dead. Valeria's death is confirmed when Humbert hears the news that "Mrs. Maximovich nee Zborovski had died in childbirth around 1945" (30). Maximovich himself has died, or so it seems, as result of "a year-long experiment...[that] dealt with human and racial reactions to a diet of bananas and dates in a constant position on all fours" (30).
--Quilty is killed in the last few pages of the book, when Humbert chases him upstairs in his house and shoots him several times. His death scene: "Quilty of all people had managed to crawl out onto the landing, and there we could see him, flapping and heaving, and then subsiding, forever this time, in a purple heap" (305).
--Humbert's mother is dead. "My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three" (10).
--Humbert's aunt Sybil is dead. "Aunt Sybil had punk-rimmed azure eyes and a waxen complexion. She said she knew she would die soon after my sixteenth birthday, and did" (10).
--Finally, Charlotte's first husband is dead, of course. This is what leaves Charlotte vulnerable and prone to falling completely in love with weird old Humbert (other than his charming European habits and manners).

There are surely other characters who are dead. This could be a long project.

Humbert's Skewed Account: Episodes in Justification

The first most prominent instance of Humbert's cycle of justification comes in the dialogue between him and Lolita immediately after they leave the camp. Because this account of those crucial moments comes from Humbert, it is hard to interpret the words which Lolita speaks as wholly true. The things she says to Humbert do not exactly seem consistent in the voice of a thirteen year old girl--in one instance, she says "When did you fall for my mummy?"; in the next, she is telling Humbert she has been "revoltingly unfaithful to [him]...because [he's] stopped caring for [her]" (112). The language takes on a much more mature tone--there is something of Humbert's sophisticated sarcasm in the tone, which leads me to believe that Humbet has altered her dialogue to make Lo seem to be on a level plane with his intent psychological bent on their relationship. She even goes on to say that she "is sort of fond of [Humbert]" (115). This, of course, should make the reader a bit suspicious...

The play of dialogue to justify comes in again on 119, starting with another one of Humbert's (seemingly always out of place) speeches: "Look here, Lo. Let's settle this once for all. For all practical purposes I am your father. I have a feeling of great tenderness for you. In your mother's absence I am responsible for your welfare. We are not rich, and while we travel, we shall be obliged--we shall be thrown a good deal together. Two people sharing one room, inevitably enter into a kind--how shall I say--a kind--"; Lo cuts him off with "The word is incest," where as she walks giggling in and out of the hotel room closet.

There is a great deal that can be said about this passage--for one, again, Humbert intrudes his account of his narrative with a moralistic-sounding speech which he writes as spoken dialogue, rather than describing the situation at hand. Because he is the one writing the account, and the account's purpose is to sway a jury, we are to assume he is taking full liberty of writing out what he said with selective and often manipulative memory. Though this piece is fiction, we get a definite sense that Humbert is materizliaing a lot of the details of this story as he writes it in jail, perhaps not always as they actually occurred. Second, the justifications for their close-quartered room is obviously questionable--as an audience who knows Humbert's intentions, his justification of his and Lo's small room as a result of not being rich is very doubtful, but he says it anyway in an effort to construct another moralistic passage which may catch the inattentive observer offguard and perhaps sway their poor opinions of him. The third and final most prominent feature of this dialogue is the way Humbert writes Lo in--as an intrusive interrupter of his modest, fatherly speech. She cuts him off and he depicts her giggling, as if taunting him or purposely aggravating him. As Amy had pointed out in today's post, and what I think is very true, is the way Humbert begins to depict Lo as someone who is negatively affecting him--its a big part of his justification. This passage is a key shift in our perception of Lo, as per how Humbert illustrates her, and I think it is important to pay attention to how that shifts our sentiments about Humbert--how it may lend, even slightly, to the dissent of our opinions and an eventual justification of his actions.

Creating Comfort: Humbert's Anxious Search for Justification

As the joyriding continues, Humbert still constantly creates situations in his mind which justify his keeping Lolita captive. One passage which particularly stuck out to me is the long-winded explanation Humbert gives to Lolita about their relationship. Though the sole purpose of this speech, in Humbert's conscious mind, is to "terror[ize] Lo" into not forming any opinion of her own, it becomes so extensive that one is left to question whether Humbert is not also going on this tangent to instill confidence in himself. He goes on and on about how he "want[s] to protect [Lo]...from all the horrors that happen to little girls in coal sheds and alley ways"; how he, as both sexual partner and father, wants to keep Lolita from the horrors of the outside (and in H.H.'s mind, presumably, "vulgar") world. This is obviously delusion--if Humbert thinks he is really protecting Lolita from anything except for forces which may empower and sway her from his grasp, he is most certainly spraying this nonsense for himself more than for Lo. He wants to be confident that he really is, in no way, in the wrong. On the following page (150), Humbert goes on to state "I am not a criminal sexual psychopath taking indecent liberties with a child." Has Dolores ever stopped and accused him of being a "sexual psychopath?" Maybe so, but her voice concerning for that subject is, for the most part, left completely out of the text, and so this statement rings more as self-confidence inducing blather. H.H. keeps with this lengthy monologue, stopping for more unnecessary statements--"I am your daddum, Lo"--along the way, though he will soon start citing justification from a book about the behavior of "normal girls," whom he assures Lolita that she is one of. Humbert reads to Lo from the book: "Among Sicilians sexual relations between a father and his daughter are accepted as a matter of course, and the girl who participates in such relationship is not looked upon with disapproval by the society of which she is part," following this with "I'm a great admirer of Sicilians" (150). Since when has Humbert mentioned Sicilians as a source of inspiration? Of admiration? Of anything? He absorbs facts from books, out of his own anxiety, and perceives them to ring true because they provide some logical justification to his actions. The close reader can see, then, that Humbert is not telling Lolita all of this to instill any confidence in the situation in her--it is  more or less for himself. Why else would he "advise" a thirteen year old not "to consider [her]self [his] cross-country slave," or declare conclusively (but not concluding his speech) "I am your father, and I am speaking English, and I love you?" These declarative occurrences appear so often in H.H.'s effort to "terrorize" Lo that it seems, in reality, he is trying to calm his anxieties with self-justification.

I think I may follow Humbert's patterns of justification to the book's conclusion, eventually developing my observations into a more precise essay topic.

H.H. in Ramsdale

Humbert Humbert's reasons for staying in a sleepy New England town, as he says in the text revolve around a slowing of pace--"I cast around for some place in the New England countryside or sleepy small town (elms, white church) where I could spend a studious summer subsisting on a compact boxful of notes I had accumulated and bathing in some nearby lake" (35). This makes some sense, as he thinks the outdoors "promise [him] some reflief"--he goes on an expedition with a doctor-friend before checking out of the sanatorium and finding his way to Ramsdale, and a "sleepy New England town" promises some sort of outdoors-y attraction and activities (33). However, as soon as he learns there is a twelve year old girl who resides at the McCoo's, the family he is to stay with, his mind largely fleets from thoughts of rural relaxation and is set on secretly "fondling her in Humbertish" (35).
So though Humbert's primary reason of picking a sleepy rural place to reside is his sudden desire to return to his studious ways, Nabokov's may be a bit different. I think there is some relation to this choosing of the setting to the sorts of people who will reside there--"middle class [Americans] in the '50s," as you say, Robin. Sleepy New England is precisely the place to find single mothers with wild-child daughters; a place where many women are, as Humbert describes, "those women whose polished words may reflect a book club or a bridge club, or any other deadly conventionality"--the northeast in the 1950's was surely a hot-bed for convention. Nabokov chose Ramsdale as the setting because small towns are so set on their own history and convention--placing a man like Humbert in the middle of small town American tradition may not seem like deep enough of a rift at first, but his arrogance and cynicism are something that directly conflict with the warmth the idea "American tradition" presents. The story's place in Ramsdale is also important because it is a place where a pedophile can lay low--a place where, as long H.H. keeps up appearances, there will be a miniscule amount of suspicion.

H.H. plays the role of millenial pop-star Shaggy: "It Wasn't Me"

Humbert is a character who will inevitably try to justify his attraction to Dolores. Though at the basest level it is against the law, but it is also a "sickness" which the public will ostracize any active participant of. Humbert is in (or would be in, if he had not died in jail) a position which requires him to make some kind of social appeal to the jury as to not be proven guilty. His explanations require logic, whimsy, and other traits which will trigger human empathy in those looking on. His attempts at triggering such empathy are various.
For one, he attempts to produce an empathy in the jury through sad recollection, in the passage on page 15, reminiscing on the "flurry of pale repetitive scraps" that was his youth. He tells the tale of his indirection as a student as if it is a tragedy worthy of public mourning--that, though his studies "were meticulous and intense," he was eventually plagued by "a peculiar exhaustion"; one which hindered him in some sort from pursuing his education to the fullest extent. Of course, in the bigger picture of human life, it may not come as a surprise that a young adult pursuing a college degree found themselves questioning their interests and motives, but Humbert talks of this time in such a way that the audience is made to think it is a great misfortune and he is at some kind of disadvantage because of it.
H.H. also attempts to create logic by explaining the rules of his attraction in a step-by-step fashion. The passage listed from pages 17-18 is a prime example of this: Humbert explains that "there must be a gap of several years, never less than ten ... generally thirty or forty, and as many as ninety in a few known cases, between maiden and man to enable the latter to come under a nymphet's spell." Of course, this is ridiculous--that there is a certain age boundary which the offender in a pedophilic relationship must adhere to in order for that relationship to be considered a nymphetic seduction; of course, it is just made up in Humbert's head to justify his actions to himself and to those looking on, but H.H. explains his attraction in such a precise and finite way--explaining more deeply that "it is...a certain distance that the inner eye thrills to surmount, and a certain contrast that the mind perceives" that triggers an attraction to a "nymphet"--that the reader, the jury, and the general bystander is likely to say "Well, maybe there is a science to his 'sickness.'"
One last passage that I found in which Humbert tries to justify his actions occurs when he meets Mr. McCoo on page 36 and learns that his house has burnt down:

"No, since the only reason for my coming had vanished, the aforesaid arrangement seemed preposterous...I was angry, disappointed and bored, but being a polite European, could not refuse to be sent off to Lawn Street in that funeral car, feeling that otherwise McCoo would devise an even more elaborate means of getting rid of me... I tipped the chauffer and hoped he would immediately drive away so that I might double back unnoticed to my hotel and bag; but the man merely crossed to the other side of the street where an old lady was calling to him from her porch. What could I do?"

Here, Humbert tries to appeal to the audience in a way which might not be expected: that he was stuck in a trap of unfortunate coincidence, a situation in which his manners conflicted with his real feeling and motives, forcing him to accept the offer of staying with the Hazes rather than going on his own way. One might be pretty suspicious that Humbert still had in mind that figure of an adolescent whom he wished to "fondle in Humbertish" (35) when he decided to stick around and see what happened, but he explains the situation in a way which justifies his actions to himself and his audience as an inescapable case of coincidence, which would eventually lead to his fatal attraction to Dolores.

Close Reading: Humbert's Flawed Sex

"Later, in his delightful debonair manner, my father gave me all the information he thought I needed about sex; this was just before sending me, in the autumn of 1923, to a lycèe in Lyon (where we were to spend three winters); but alas, in the summer of that year, he was touring Italy with Mme de R. and her daughter, and I had nobody to complain to, nobody to consult." [Lolita (online text pg. 5), Vladimir Nabokov]

Since the novel Lolita's main character is a child molester, and since the story is set up as an account of the narrator used in court, the tendency to psychoanalyze Humbert Humbert is not one that comes as surprise. By close reading his accounts, the reader may grasp at the reasons why Humbert is seduced so by the appearance and unconscious actions of adolescent females.
It should be known that Humbert can account for his father having "numerous" relationships with other women who were not or did not act as a mother figure to him, but simultaneously ogled over him as a young boy. He also describes his father as charming in various instances. The use of "debonair" in the first sentence of this section, then, is a use that Humbert (and certainly Nabokov) knows is quite excessive. This suggests that Humbert sees nothing but charm in his father, and, knowing that his only attention from women was that of the "cutesy" variety, suggests further that the only charm he really knows how to have is that which grants him cutesy attention--the kind which young girls give.
His father "gave [Humbert] all the information he thought [Humbert] needed about sex," and Humbert's immediate memory after this is his father sending him away. There is a clear spirit of isolation in Humbert's remembrance of this time--though his father may have given him "all he needed to know about sex," Humbert's memory suggests he did not give Humbert the proper support concerning sexuality an adolescent should have when transitioning into young adulthood. This does not suggest anything directly reflecting his attraction to young girls, but it is clear Humbert's psyche may have suffered because of his father's absence.
The final sentence (or half of the prior sentence) solidifies this observation further--Humbert was alone that summer, presumably a young boy with little to do, with newly learned feelings about sex. With "nobody to complain to, nobody to consult," Humbert was alone with his feelings which, at this point, probably began to twist and malign into a flawed idea of interrelations between genders. Surely these traits can be connected to his eventual strange fondness of the youth of preteens.

Lolita: Opening Sentiments

John Jay Jr. is the cousin of Clarence Choate Clark, Esq., who happens to be Humbert Humbert’s lawyer in the trial for his sex crimes. Clark chooses Jay to edit “Lolita” because Jay has some familiarity with writing about “morbid states and perversions”—in the context of the book, “Lolita” is the memoir of H.H. concerning his life immediately prior to, during, and after the course of his criminal actions.

            The foreword frames Lolita, the novel, as reality—by setting it up as a postscript to a man’s life, a man who has endured punishment for his vile actions, the reader is jabbed with some expectation of empathy before they hear what Humbert himself has to say of these matters. The continual framing of the story from different angles: as a cautionary tale of currently developing fissures in civilized society; as a great opportunity for case study and psychoanalysis—these angles of viewing Humbert’s criminality made me find myself taking a more sterile approach, looking not for striking emotional moments, but combing over the text more scientifically, appreciating facts of Humbert’s situation and their justifications in his mind. The foreword is a brace for what is to come, but it is also an attempt at socially contextualizing the book to make it seem less about the obscene and more about what the obscene can teach civilized society.

            As far as the balance of banality and originality goes, I did find that the text so far did not strike me as completely Nabokovian—aside from the up-front cynical sarcasm of our main character’s narration, the intricate language is not quite as intricate; there is not anything noticeably puzzle-like about the text, yet. It seems Nabokov, though certainly his own writer to an extent, is pulling from other texts of the time—the set-up of the foreword and the first chapter, for instance, (for some strange reason) reminds me of the beginning of The Immoralist by Andre Gide. Though I did not read past the first ten pages of that book (it isn’t very good), the tone of Lolita’s opening has a definite similarity in its direct address to the reader, a precautionary segment before the text itself, not completely similar but resembling in some sort the opening justifications of Edgar Allen Poe’s stories. The first chapter itself pulls from Poe’s “Annabel Lee,” going as far as to pull near-complete lines from the poem: “In a princedom by the sea” in the first chapter copies “In a kingdom by the sea” from “Annabel Lee.” The themes of the works are similar, too: love, madness, perversion. It is clear that Nabokov took these similarities with utmost purpose to frame the beginning of his novel.

            Either Nabokov wants to make parody of Freud’s psychoanalytic approaches, or he is consciously borrowing from but not wanting to be associated with the strict constraints of psychological thought. While one may not put it past Nabokov to make parody of well-known and somewhat respected social figures, it seems to me that he does find some treasure to be wrought for literature in psychoanalysis but wishes to discern himself on a higher level in his interviews by denying association and even slandering the work of Freud and the like. The precursors of The Enchanter and Lolita are, in many senses, pulling from figures ( I am thinking of Camus and Freud, specifically) that Nabokov has openly denied of seeing any intellectual prowess in. Since he has observed them closely enough to shit-talk them relentlessly, it is nearly certain that he is borrowing from their theories consciously, and it is hard to think of this borrowing as parody, as it contextualizes entire stories which have worked in Nabokov’s favor. Perhaps he is using the psychological approach as a means of making his stories relevant in circles that appreciate Freud and Camus.

            Like the use of psychoanalytic approaches, I believe that Nabokov is exploiting the exploitative and its appeal to the masses in order to characterize his main characters as troubled, sleazy, corrupted—in Lolita, especially, the foreword’s frame of justification followed by the vulgar perversions of Humbert’s account—his speaking of these matters matter-of-factly—creates a conflict in the reader as to whether or not they should feel empathy for him. It keeps the average reader interested and reading.

Enchanted by Control

In my continued pursuance of the Enchanter's lack of control, I want to draw attention to a particular passage on page 15-16 of the paperback edition:

"The girl's arrival, her breathing, her legs, her hair, everything she did, whether it was scratching a shin and leaving white marks on it, or throwing a small black ball high in the air, or brushing against him with a bare elbow as she seated herself on the bench--all of it (while he appeared engrossed in pleasant conversation) evoked an intolerable sensation of sanguine, dermal, multivascular communion with her, as if the monstrous bisector pumping all the juices from the depths of his being extended into her like a pulsating dotted line, as if this girl were growing out of him, as if, with every carefree movement, she tugged and shook her vital roots implanted in the bowels of his being, so that, when she abruptly changed position or rushed off, he felt a yank, a barbarous pluck, a momentary loss of equilibrium" (15-16)

Drawing attention to Nabokov's description of the Enchanter's feeling, it is clear to see that his connection with this small girl is based on his internal feeling of a lack of control. Though she is completely and entirely carefree, he attaches an extreme feeling of control over him to her actions; he feels her tugging and shaking him around; her actions completely govern his intuitive feelings; she is the "vital roots" of his being. There is a strong sense that the Enchanter does not seek out this girl in order to establish control right away--his attraction to her starts with a feeling of wanting to be controlled by someone whose actions and appearance he sees as untainted.

It is easy to see the stages of this process of attraction in this passage alone as they will develop for the duration of the story: he witnesses her actions and simply her being; the feeling of the attraction begins inside him as a governing source of unbiased and untainted feeling; she continues to "grow out" of him, becoming a separate entity in his eyes, one to be admired; and finally he understands the control she has over him, beginning to yearn for that control from this passage on. It is odd and certainly perverted, in a sense, but it reveals much about the background of the main character without Nabokov having to blatantly say that the Enchanter is "insecure," or something of the like. This ability to characterize so vividly with subtlety is admirable, to say the least.

The Enchanter's Lost Marbles

                The main character who we follow through Nabokov’s The Enchanter—he who assumes the title of the book—is a man whose perverse desires are driven by a lack of control of his life and the things that surround him. He is a nervous man whose actions seem to be chiefly derived from impulse; a man whose sexual want for a small child is driven by a want to mold and control something tangible—something that he knows he can build and destroy at even the subtlest pang of desire.

                It should be first noted that he is constantly feeling guilty—he knows the feelings he has are sinful and generally looked down upon, though he is constantly “seeking justification for [his] guilt” (6). He is obviously a man who is very hard on himself and aware of the judgments that are passed everyday by countless people around him; people whose judgments he has no control over. He, himself, is judgmental of others—“So what if I have had five or six normal affairs—how can one compare their insipid randomness with my unique flame?”—seemingly out of some lack of control over his own love life; one can only assume that these random affairs ended poorly when he values his brief encounters with a child over the relative experience they gave him. He ends up going ahead and marrying the young girl’s mother to get closer to her, of course with no desire for the woman herself, but when he has the subtle thought that she wants to have sex, his mind goes completely awry: “…he could not avoid the conclusion that that very night he was expected to be instrumental in the first infraction of [her] habit [of sleeping alone]” (36).  It is clear that he has some insecurity with his sexuality in general—not only in the instance of his attraction to an adolescent—as he cannot even face the idea of faking his way carnal love to get closer to the young girl.

                Then there is the edenic scene, where he begins to fully unfold his extremely elaborate plans for him and Cordelia’s future, where he will take her away to a remote location in the woods and raise her from a young age in an “eternal nursery,” one where “past, present and future would appear to her as a single radiance whose source had emanated…from her viviparous lover” (55-57). He wants to create a feeling in her that he is her creator; he is the sole reason for her joy and contentment. Feelings like these in a grown man who has any conscious grip on his confidence and the world around him seem bizarre—it is clear that the Enchanter himself is suffering from severe self-image issues. He feels the world slipping away from him quicker and quicker, resulting in his impulsive death in the end of the novella.

Nabokov and his World

            Vladimir Nabokov is an odd man, to say the least; from his lepidopterist obsession that just borders on a professional level, to his refusal to live in one home, he is a man with so many interesting facets boiling under the surface, it is hard to believe his outward personality seems so flat. He presents as quite arrogant at times, repeatedly down-talking well renowned authors in his interviews, belittling the questions of the interviewer which stray from the focus of his works and his literary method. There is also a strong thread of sarcasm tying Nabokov’s public persona together; he is a man full of quick wits and precise and biting retorts.

It is difficult to trust a biographer who is interpreting whatever facts they have collected for themselves—though they are, of course, trying to paint a precise picture, it is a picture that may be affected by their own nature of perception. Since Nabokov is such a precise man in mind and practice, or so it seems, it is even harder to trust this biographer, as surely the commentary he has inflected does not accurately account for the inner-workings of Nabokov’s life. It seems that Nabokov’s reception was not poor in the U.S., as he toured the entire country, though his reception at Cornell was not well at first. His first classes dwindled in size until he taught Masterpieces of European Literature, and with the success of this enormous 400-person class, his fellow professors finally approved of his teaching at Cornell—or, rather, they could no longer be mad at him for not “pulling his weight.”

            There are several similarities and several differences between Nabokov the writer and Nabokov the person. While his outward personality comes off as chiding and cynical, his personal habits present a much more delicate and careful man—though his writing is always undoubtedly  a meticulously woven quilt, his delicacy as a lepidopterist exceeds the patience and creativity needed to craft writing of his stature. Here is a man who is clearly obsessed with his own work, a perfectionist, a careful mover—it is interesting to see this intricate mixture coupled with a mouth-running, salary-raise-demanding, and sometimes bordering-on-scornful man. His philosophy towards literature other than his own is quite scientific, it seems—he tells Alfred Appel at one point that his “first contact with Ulysses…was in the thirties at a time when I was definitely formed as a writer and immune to any literary influence” (71). Surely, most modern writers would agree that reading and writing are very reflective of each other, and one could find new influences until their pen dropped and they stopped breathing. It is clear, then, how methodical and meticulous Nabokov’s attitude toward literature really is.

Aside from the clear presence of sarcasm and arrogance, though, it is hard to get a view into Nabokov’s mind. It may be fair to make a guess at some insecurity in Nabokov. He does not answer interview questions on the spot, opting to read and write his answers meditatively. It is also worth mentioning that he only drove a car twice in his life, in refusal perhaps hinting at some fear of failure. The strength of his writing may be a result of his nervous, insomniac tendencies in waking life, opting to build fantastical stories where he knows he has full control over what will happen next.