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4.5/5
I found the Jeremy Irons narration really great.
I was particularly moved by the rare glimpses of sincerity (such as “You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.”) skillfully juxtaposed to HH's excuses and justifications (such as the whole nymphet nonsense). Indeed, as one gets used to the self-centered passages that dominate the novel, the occasional depictions of true remorse like the one below are all the more powerful, bringing out an unexpected humanity of HH:
> Alas, I was unable to transcend the simple human fact that whatever spiritual solace I might find, whatever lithophanic eternities might be provided for me, nothing could make my Lolita forget the foul lust I had inflicted upon her. Unless it can be proven to me – to me as I am now, today, with my heart and my beard, and my putrefaction – that in the infinite run it does not matter a jot that a North American girl-child named Dolores Haze had been deprived of her childhood by a maniac, unless this can be proven (and if it can, then life is a joke), I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.
HH admits that despite trying to convince himself and the reader that he truly loved Dolores, the fact is that he never really knew her. He was profoundly disinterested with anything but his own pleasure. The passage above reveals that, despite all his previous laughable claims to the contrary (“Sensitive gentlewoman of the jury, I was not even her first lover.”), he is aware of the harm he has done. This understanding and confession remind me of his humanity despite all his faults. I guess it is interesting that even in the midst of this confession of guilt and empathy for his victim, HH again ends up focusing on himself as he is preoccupied with the treatment of his own misery.
I found the Jeremy Irons narration really great.
I was particularly moved by the rare glimpses of sincerity (such as “You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.”) skillfully juxtaposed to HH's excuses and justifications (such as the whole nymphet nonsense). Indeed, as one gets used to the self-centered passages that dominate the novel, the occasional depictions of true remorse like the one below are all the more powerful, bringing out an unexpected humanity of HH:
> Alas, I was unable to transcend the simple human fact that whatever spiritual solace I might find, whatever lithophanic eternities might be provided for me, nothing could make my Lolita forget the foul lust I had inflicted upon her. Unless it can be proven to me – to me as I am now, today, with my heart and my beard, and my putrefaction – that in the infinite run it does not matter a jot that a North American girl-child named Dolores Haze had been deprived of her childhood by a maniac, unless this can be proven (and if it can, then life is a joke), I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.
HH admits that despite trying to convince himself and the reader that he truly loved Dolores, the fact is that he never really knew her. He was profoundly disinterested with anything but his own pleasure. The passage above reveals that, despite all his previous laughable claims to the contrary (“Sensitive gentlewoman of the jury, I was not even her first lover.”), he is aware of the harm he has done. This understanding and confession remind me of his humanity despite all his faults. I guess it is interesting that even in the midst of this confession of guilt and empathy for his victim, HH again ends up focusing on himself as he is preoccupied with the treatment of his own misery.