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Lolita
by Vladimir Nabokov
When writing of the macabre or of something that may be considered infinitely risque or scandalous, one of the most important things that many writers need to, but very few seldom do, pay attention to is a thing called 'balance.'
It's simple enough. A story may be about anyone or anything but when you tell a tale of a man who is mystified and enamoured by twelve year old girls, things become tricky. Being autobiographical in nature, Lolita would have created a humongous mountain for any writer to cross. It would be profoundly difficult to create a character, simply speaking, that has such heinous desires and yet be relateable and at times even worthy of a reader's sympathy. It sounds unbelievably hard and it is, but not for Mr. Nabokov.
Nabokov creates a character with so many layers that calling it a masterpiece doesn't begin to do it justice. H.H., his main character, is delightfully complex and unbelievably monstrous. His desires are perverse but his motives chaste. His manner is proper, well distinguished but his behaviour is nothing but blood curling. Seeing everything from his perspective takes us on a journey through his partly deranged mind and the journey is simply incredulous. His descriptions of little girls and their effects of him will disgust anyone but the cogs of such a mind at work laid bare will do nothing but utterly fascinate those who read it. Nabokov has achieved something special here, his enormously verbose, yet lacking in description, style evoking images that are swathed in double entendre, puns, euphemisms and just sheer, magical prose.
It works to perfection, his way with words, since it tells us a story that has many characters but is about only one. His lack of description, while off putting at first, reveals an intentional choice on part of the author, to display a man so entrenched in his vile desires that anything else becomes secondary or irrelevant. It's the work of a master and it took me embarrassingly long to figure out. But once I did, I realised that I was reading something that could only be described as greatness.
I could go into depth about the various devices that Nabokov uses here to enthrall, disgust and fascinate us. But a novel like this has been analysed to death. All I have to say is that works of art like this are very rare and need to be treasured. I can't speak to the actual content of the book or rather, how that content may make many people feel. We live in an age of awareness and the horrific effects of child abuse are known to all of us now, so feigning a lack of knowledge as a reason to enjoy this book is not a liberty anyone can afford. However, Nabokov's work should not be mistaken as something that sensationalises abuse or the like. It should be seen as what it is, an author's imagination of what such a man's mind might hold, among all its hidden doors and cabinets. In that respect, Lolita is amazing and needs to be enjoyed over and over again.
It's simple enough. A story may be about anyone or anything but when you tell a tale of a man who is mystified and enamoured by twelve year old girls, things become tricky. Being autobiographical in nature, Lolita would have created a humongous mountain for any writer to cross. It would be profoundly difficult to create a character, simply speaking, that has such heinous desires and yet be relateable and at times even worthy of a reader's sympathy. It sounds unbelievably hard and it is, but not for Mr. Nabokov.
Nabokov creates a character with so many layers that calling it a masterpiece doesn't begin to do it justice. H.H., his main character, is delightfully complex and unbelievably monstrous. His desires are perverse but his motives chaste. His manner is proper, well distinguished but his behaviour is nothing but blood curling. Seeing everything from his perspective takes us on a journey through his partly deranged mind and the journey is simply incredulous. His descriptions of little girls and their effects of him will disgust anyone but the cogs of such a mind at work laid bare will do nothing but utterly fascinate those who read it. Nabokov has achieved something special here, his enormously verbose, yet lacking in description, style evoking images that are swathed in double entendre, puns, euphemisms and just sheer, magical prose.
It works to perfection, his way with words, since it tells us a story that has many characters but is about only one. His lack of description, while off putting at first, reveals an intentional choice on part of the author, to display a man so entrenched in his vile desires that anything else becomes secondary or irrelevant. It's the work of a master and it took me embarrassingly long to figure out. But once I did, I realised that I was reading something that could only be described as greatness.
I could go into depth about the various devices that Nabokov uses here to enthrall, disgust and fascinate us. But a novel like this has been analysed to death. All I have to say is that works of art like this are very rare and need to be treasured. I can't speak to the actual content of the book or rather, how that content may make many people feel. We live in an age of awareness and the horrific effects of child abuse are known to all of us now, so feigning a lack of knowledge as a reason to enjoy this book is not a liberty anyone can afford. However, Nabokov's work should not be mistaken as something that sensationalises abuse or the like. It should be seen as what it is, an author's imagination of what such a man's mind might hold, among all its hidden doors and cabinets. In that respect, Lolita is amazing and needs to be enjoyed over and over again.