Let’s Get Into Character

Think about a paedophile’s daily diary: yellow stained pages (or stained yellow pages, if you must), scrawny handwritten accounts of disgusting pleasure, half-baked buns of fantasy smeared with rotten butter, and similar. It will invoke revulsion, loathing, and maybe even sympathy towards such madness. But, would such a diary invoke literary mirth and intellectual satisfaction in the reader? Probably not.

Think about the paedophile’s victim: a pretty 13 year old. Innocent to the point of being naive; at least in most matters. Dainty, reciting poems from memory, sobbing, throwing pebbles at the caged dog, slightly sadistic – as only children can be, charming in spite of muddy toes, and sprinkled with other Nobokovian adjectives. Think of the child’s Dear Diary: pages stained with salty drops of tears, fantasies of sand castles, running in parks, convoluted stories with toy characters (no adult toys featured in the Dear Diary; those are reserved for real life), candy cravings, a lot of loved loving and a lot of hated loving, and similar. Such a Dear Diary would invoke grief, pathos, hatred, helplessness, love, bitterness, and maybe even murderous rage. But, would it make you chuckle at its wit or marvel at its genius or exasperate you with its self referential cleverness or make you wish that there was an annotated version somewhere? Probably not.

Here is what I think Nabokov did while writing Lolita. He picked a situation, infused some characters, and become one: Humbert Humbert. It might have been difficult to look at the scene from just one set of eyes, in case he had created the scene “objectively.” But he did manage to pull it off, and it has become the first person narrative classic. How do I know all this? Humbert told me so. There lies its charm (chasm, I might add). I will never really know what the “objective” scene was. Now, is it possible to go beyond Humbert’s viewpoint and extract the “objective” situation from his description: just the facts? If so, is it possible to go further and look at the situation from some other character’s viewpoint? If so, what would Lolita’s viewpoint be?

I know that Humbert’s diary was far from boring, and in spite of disgust, it did invoke literary mirth and intellectual satisfaction in me. Is it possible that Lolita’s diary would leave me with the same literary and intellectual high, despite the pathos, helplessness, and pain? I am not sure. Humbert insists that Lolita’s viewpoint would be boring. She didn’t have his exquisite European cultural tailoring; she couldn’t compete with his supreme romanticism; she was not diabolical enough; she just didn’t have his genius to write The Confession of a White Widowed Male. That’s what he insists, of course.

But for some reason, my gut insists that her Dear Diary, or, as as its alternate title would read: The Confession of a Nymphomaniacal Nymphet – would be as clever, as mirthful, and as stimulating (intellectually too) as his confession, if not more. Imagine Humbert never knowing that she was playing his own game with him. I wonder if Nabokov ever thought about it. He must’ve; and if he had, did he ever want to write “I, Lolita.”

I will attempt it someday. I will get into character.

Lolita Haze

Feel my heart, reader, feel it, its throbbing and beating, beating me to death. The death of normalcy, simplicity, and all that my earlier normal and simple writing stood for – or shall I say banality? The tip of the tongue takes a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth – Lo – Lee – Ta.

I am in love. In love with Lolita, her simple attire (she looks black and white, but now, she is hardly that, is she?), her appeal’s complexity, my inability, or if you generously will, my incapacity to understand her completely, and most of all, that dolorous fact that she will never be mine, fully…..Lolita, you adorn my shelf and my heart. Worn out, you shall be, no doubt, some day; I will buy a new copy then, whatever your price might be. Did I tell you I loved your dog-eared cutie-two-shoes look? Oh, I might not have, due to my adolescent, almost juvenile principal principle that I will shun vulnerability.

Humbert “The Humbug” Humbert: passionate, pedophile, psychoanalyst, prurient, petulant, poetic, pathetic, promantic, pdigusting, padorable, pintriguing, and rest assured, light years far from being non-chalant, or any such “heroesque” trite traits, like Sir Pelham’s cheap dandy. Hombert dear, I am so boringly straight.

Lolita: Lo, lore, brat! I hope your readers, those cheap voyeurs, like you the way I do; I, voyeur-extraordinaire. Ma femme, be good to them, in all aspects and respects. Don’t kill them. Don’t make them hate themselves, and you naive reader! yes, you! Read her, lest your life remain ingloriously incomplete. An exercise in bliss; in literary heaven, let mirthful chuckles run amuck. Feel the hot and cold ends of disgusting imagery and chilling wit.

In a singularly repulsive nutshell (the customary conclusion), its just Humbert and his brethren, Lolita and her ilky silky nymphets, star crossed. O queasy reader, don’t be cross at the intricate incestuous labyrinth (of the self-referential type) that is Lolita. Go grab her, and feel her end to end. Trust me not, but you have not felt anyone like her before.

ps: Ulysses, here I come.
pps: Insincere apologies to the scrambled Mr or Ms. Vivian Darkbloom.