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Margaux, Margaux
I started writing this book the summer after the death of Peter Curran, whom I met when I was seven and had a relationship with for fifteen years, right up until he committed suicide at the age of sixty-six.
-- “Tiger, Tiger” by Margaux Fragoso
When it comes to the critical work on Vladimir Nabokov’s “Lolita”, one will come across from time to time the lament that we don’t get the little girl’s perspective. Well, in Margaux Fragoso’s novelistic memoir, we get a more than adequate remedy for that deficiency. Indeed, after reading this starkly realist account of pedophilia and child abuse, I find myself thinking of Nabokov’s work as being absurdly caricaturesque, a laughably over-strained piece of romanticism, as we get the focus on the poor, tortured soul of Humbert Humbert, a tale of pedophiliac love gone wrong.
This isn’t to say that I will cease reading “Lolita”, as it is a wonder of literary craftsmanship, and there is still all of the rich spice of the sexually provocative material. One simply appreciates that it is an artsy confabulation rather than a realist treatment of a pedophile’s crimes. And let it be noted that Nabokov never promised more than literary art, not science or biography.
Now, Monk being Monk, I was going to type out a few nasty excerpts, but due to the incendiary nature of the material, I am doubtful about the wisdom of such a move. However, if at least three people will encourage me to go ahead and give up these nasty tidbits, I will do so. You may do this in a comment or in a private message that shall remain confidential. I don’t want this just to be about me trying to push things on people that no one really wants. And you can check back over the next couple of days to see if this has been done, as I will add the excerpts to this post if it has been duly requested
-- “Tiger, Tiger” by Margaux Fragoso
When it comes to the critical work on Vladimir Nabokov’s “Lolita”, one will come across from time to time the lament that we don’t get the little girl’s perspective. Well, in Margaux Fragoso’s novelistic memoir, we get a more than adequate remedy for that deficiency. Indeed, after reading this starkly realist account of pedophilia and child abuse, I find myself thinking of Nabokov’s work as being absurdly caricaturesque, a laughably over-strained piece of romanticism, as we get the focus on the poor, tortured soul of Humbert Humbert, a tale of pedophiliac love gone wrong.
This isn’t to say that I will cease reading “Lolita”, as it is a wonder of literary craftsmanship, and there is still all of the rich spice of the sexually provocative material. One simply appreciates that it is an artsy confabulation rather than a realist treatment of a pedophile’s crimes. And let it be noted that Nabokov never promised more than literary art, not science or biography.
Now, Monk being Monk, I was going to type out a few nasty excerpts, but due to the incendiary nature of the material, I am doubtful about the wisdom of such a move. However, if at least three people will encourage me to go ahead and give up these nasty tidbits, I will do so. You may do this in a comment or in a private message that shall remain confidential. I don’t want this just to be about me trying to push things on people that no one really wants. And you can check back over the next couple of days to see if this has been done, as I will add the excerpts to this post if it has been duly requested