“Lolita,” the very highly-contested pedophilia “love” story by Vladimir Nabokov is the among the first stacked in the “banned book” debates. However, just as Brett Eason Ellis’ writing “American Psycho” does not make him a serial killer, Nabokov does not promote perversion in “Lolita.” Instead, he writes a deep dive into the psychology of a solipsist, showing that evil is nuanced and comes in more forms than a man with horns.
Humbert Humbert, or H.H, is the protagonist of the novel who tells the story of his love affairs through first-person narration. He leads with his narcissism, unable to see his wrongs as he subjectivises each misaction and fends off the emotional turmoil of others through his inflated self interest. Humbert always knew he liked a specific type of girl – his “nymphets.” His attraction is constantly justified through his incessant monologues of their natural seduction, their teasing nature. In all reality, he is an older man perverting innocence without remorse.
Dolores is the 12-year-old daughter of Charlotte Haze, a widow H.H. stays with while moving to a quaint New England town. Nicknaming her Dolly, Lo, Lola and then, Lolita, the child becomes the object of his obsessions. What begins as discreet releases of his urges becomes body horror after Humbert devises schemes to get closer. The novel turns quickly with Humbert going from internalized perversions to becoming a kidnapper and an overt abuser.
The scariest part of the book is the profoundly beautiful writing. Humbert is an intelligent character who is charming and often sympathetic to the reader. The flowery language flows through the disgusting nature of the plot, spoon feeding the reader sweet-tasting rot. The sexual depravity and erotica is uncomfortable but poignant to the message. Nabokov crafted something defying. While it looks bad for this to be a favorite book, it should be given its literary flowers.
To walk side by side with a predator is not a passive experience for the readers of this novel. In fact, walls are consistently broken as Nabokov embraces meta throughout – a ploy in making the reader feel complicit.
“Please reader: no matter your exasperation with the tenderhearted, morbidly sensitive, infinitely circumspect hero of my book, do not skip these essential pages! Imagine me; I shall not exist if you do not imagine me; try to discern the doe in me, trembling in the forest of my own inequity; let’s even smile a little. After all, there is no harm in smiling.”
This is not a love story. I read “Lolita” with white knuckles and a visceral discomfort. Only great writing like this can unsettle a reader, and only profound legacy can make a book so contested after 70 years of publication.
