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A review by screen_memory
The Enchanter by Vladimir Nabokov
4.0
The Enchanter is a novella for the literary-minded paedophile.
I say that half in jest.
There is an opinion pervasive among Nabokov's readers that The Enchanter is the precursor to Lolita, the "Ur-Lolita," an opinion that is not entirely false. Nabokov alludes to his darling story in the author's note that opens the book stating that it was "the first little throb of Lolita," thus inspiring readers to imply countless parallels between the story in question and Lolita. The idea that The Enchanter is a relative of Lolita's, however, is an alloy of indisputable fact whose quality is marred by the lesser metals of falsehood and dissimilarity. In other words, the nameless nymphet in The Enchanter finds identification with Lolita more by way of union in the rosy Haze of youth and less as a distant relative to young Dolores. A number of Nabokov's works contain at least a slight whisper of an adult male's repressed lust for a pre-pubescent girl, which lends itself to the idea that it is not uncommon for an author to develop and elaborate on themes across numerous novels. Dmitri Nabokov elaborates on this: "It may have contained, as he [Vladimir] put it, 'the first little throb' of the later novel--and even that thesis might be questioned if one attentively examines certain earlier works of his--but we must also not forget that the arts in general pulsate with first throbs that foreshadow future, larger works...."
With that said, let us move on to the story proper.
The story details the lecherous acts and repressed lust of a central European man of middle age who seems proper at first glance, although scenes wherein he indulges in subtle, stolen strokes across the lush valleys of wispish down on a young nymphet's arms disabuses us of this idea. Perhaps the most amusing characteristics of The Enchanter is the paedophile's conflict with his criminal desires, his very forbidden nature, against the more nurturing and paternal aspects of his character. In some capacity, he wishes he could feel a fatherly love for the Parisian child but, as expected, his erotic taste for young girls supplants his sense of shame as evidenced by mental images of tentacles enveloping the girl, a wolf in pursuit of his little Red Riding Hood, and the surreal visual anomaly of the "black salad devouring a green rabbit" which seems to capture the protagonist's (is he deserving of such a title?) disoriented frame of mind.
The seventy-something page story casts the middle-aged European as a lonely eccentric, although polite and innocuous in presentation. He sits on a park bench and observes young children at play. A woman of similar age, who we are later led to believe is one in possession of both dire looks and health, knits next to our familiar pederast. Our man soon realizes that she is the guardian of a comely twelve year-old girl.
Now, the title of the story afforded this reader a bit of confusion as I assumed the nymphet to be the enchanter as the man was so enchanted (if you will allow me such an easy literary flourish) by the young girl that he, following their premiere encounter, conspires to maneuver into the girl's life, to gain permission to her proximity. He accomplishes this by proposing to marry the sickly guardian of the child, our miserable knitter with a disgusting body, disagreeable odors, a host of health complications, and a wart that Nabokov cannot stop focusing our attention on.
The story after the proposal becomes a chess game for the enchanter (it would not be a Nabokov narrative if it did not employ the triumvirate of motifs that rule Nabokoviana: paedophilia, chess, and lepidoptera); "Don't think too much, keep the pressure on the weak corner of the board," he says to himself after the guardian announces her plans to return the child to the mother and stepfather in order to maintain silence in her home.
I don't mean for this review to become a Sparksnotes of the proceedings. Read it for yourself. It is a beautifully written account of a man's vile desire for and acts perpetrated upon a young girl. Nabokov has faced accusations of pederasty in past interviews for stories such as this one, and for those who condemn the artist based on a not-at-all penetrating glance on the subject matter--such as Lolita existing solely as a repressed paedophile's vicarious acts of abuse upon a young girl--perhaps Nabokov penned the ending of The Enchanter for you.
The penultimate scene describes our very own enchanter, overripe with desire, disgorging his reserves of "molten wax" which the child witnesses. The proceedings are costumed in esoteric metaphors, of course. Having awakened the guests and alerted the staff at their motel, our enchanter takes off to elude the chase of his would-be captors. When a friendly train arrives to satisfy our enchanter's final desire, Nabokov writes, "...this thundering iron thing, this instantaneous cinema of dismemberment....Zigzag gymnastics of lightning, spectrogram of a thunderbolt's split seconds-and the film of life had burst," reminding his readers that what they have witnessed was pure literary invention. The Enchanter was not an account of Lesley-Ann Downey, of Sarah Payne, or JonBenét Ramsey. It is a tale of fiction penned by an artist, no more and no less.
I say that half in jest.
There is an opinion pervasive among Nabokov's readers that The Enchanter is the precursor to Lolita, the "Ur-Lolita," an opinion that is not entirely false. Nabokov alludes to his darling story in the author's note that opens the book stating that it was "the first little throb of Lolita," thus inspiring readers to imply countless parallels between the story in question and Lolita. The idea that The Enchanter is a relative of Lolita's, however, is an alloy of indisputable fact whose quality is marred by the lesser metals of falsehood and dissimilarity. In other words, the nameless nymphet in The Enchanter finds identification with Lolita more by way of union in the rosy Haze of youth and less as a distant relative to young Dolores. A number of Nabokov's works contain at least a slight whisper of an adult male's repressed lust for a pre-pubescent girl, which lends itself to the idea that it is not uncommon for an author to develop and elaborate on themes across numerous novels. Dmitri Nabokov elaborates on this: "It may have contained, as he [Vladimir] put it, 'the first little throb' of the later novel--and even that thesis might be questioned if one attentively examines certain earlier works of his--but we must also not forget that the arts in general pulsate with first throbs that foreshadow future, larger works...."
With that said, let us move on to the story proper.
The story details the lecherous acts and repressed lust of a central European man of middle age who seems proper at first glance, although scenes wherein he indulges in subtle, stolen strokes across the lush valleys of wispish down on a young nymphet's arms disabuses us of this idea. Perhaps the most amusing characteristics of The Enchanter is the paedophile's conflict with his criminal desires, his very forbidden nature, against the more nurturing and paternal aspects of his character. In some capacity, he wishes he could feel a fatherly love for the Parisian child but, as expected, his erotic taste for young girls supplants his sense of shame as evidenced by mental images of tentacles enveloping the girl, a wolf in pursuit of his little Red Riding Hood, and the surreal visual anomaly of the "black salad devouring a green rabbit" which seems to capture the protagonist's (is he deserving of such a title?) disoriented frame of mind.
The seventy-something page story casts the middle-aged European as a lonely eccentric, although polite and innocuous in presentation. He sits on a park bench and observes young children at play. A woman of similar age, who we are later led to believe is one in possession of both dire looks and health, knits next to our familiar pederast. Our man soon realizes that she is the guardian of a comely twelve year-old girl.
Now, the title of the story afforded this reader a bit of confusion as I assumed the nymphet to be the enchanter as the man was so enchanted (if you will allow me such an easy literary flourish) by the young girl that he, following their premiere encounter, conspires to maneuver into the girl's life, to gain permission to her proximity. He accomplishes this by proposing to marry the sickly guardian of the child, our miserable knitter with a disgusting body, disagreeable odors, a host of health complications, and a wart that Nabokov cannot stop focusing our attention on.
The story after the proposal becomes a chess game for the enchanter (it would not be a Nabokov narrative if it did not employ the triumvirate of motifs that rule Nabokoviana: paedophilia, chess, and lepidoptera); "Don't think too much, keep the pressure on the weak corner of the board," he says to himself after the guardian announces her plans to return the child to the mother and stepfather in order to maintain silence in her home.
I don't mean for this review to become a Sparksnotes of the proceedings. Read it for yourself. It is a beautifully written account of a man's vile desire for and acts perpetrated upon a young girl. Nabokov has faced accusations of pederasty in past interviews for stories such as this one, and for those who condemn the artist based on a not-at-all penetrating glance on the subject matter--such as Lolita existing solely as a repressed paedophile's vicarious acts of abuse upon a young girl--perhaps Nabokov penned the ending of The Enchanter for you.
The penultimate scene describes our very own enchanter, overripe with desire, disgorging his reserves of "molten wax" which the child witnesses. The proceedings are costumed in esoteric metaphors, of course. Having awakened the guests and alerted the staff at their motel, our enchanter takes off to elude the chase of his would-be captors. When a friendly train arrives to satisfy our enchanter's final desire, Nabokov writes, "...this thundering iron thing, this instantaneous cinema of dismemberment....Zigzag gymnastics of lightning, spectrogram of a thunderbolt's split seconds-and the film of life had burst," reminding his readers that what they have witnessed was pure literary invention. The Enchanter was not an account of Lesley-Ann Downey, of Sarah Payne, or JonBenét Ramsey. It is a tale of fiction penned by an artist, no more and no less.