Margaux, Margaux

[monk222]

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

Comments

[make-me-stay.livejournal.com]

being absurdly caricaturesque, a laughably over-strained piece of romanticism, as we get the focus on the poor, tortured soul of Humbert Humbert

That's kind of the point of Lolita - Nabokov is an expert at creating unreliable narrators, but we're taught to believe as truth the stories we're told. If you don't see past Humbert's delusions to the story that's being told behind that, then you're missing the really disturbing tone of the tale. I'd say that the point isn't to explore pedophilia, but rather the extent of demented fantasy.

[hardblue.livejournal.com]

Beautifully put!

I've only read one other Nabokov novel, "The Luzhin Defense", which also featured a weird protagonist who winds up going fully mad, though in this one I don't think there was too much more going on in the subtext, though in reading crtics discussing his other novels, it does seem that Nabokov's style is to work his stories through demented characters, and maybe even demented plots. Like he is just about word games.

I want to tackle another of his novels, and I'm thinking of either "Despair" or "Laughter in the Dark". Do you have a recommendation?

[make-me-stay.livejournal.com]

Poor Lolita, I get so defensive of it - hipsters especially seem to have taken up a completely uninquisitive reading of Lolita with a vengeance - and it drives me bananas when it's read on it's most superficial level, when Humbert is so obviously an overblown and predatory nutcase - he's meant to sicken the reader, not be a romantic idol! And if you find him a sympathetic character, the realization is meant to sicken you even more!


Despair is great, featuring an unreliable, delusional narrator - I was going to leave you a quote from it a few weeks ago, on one of your posts about God -

"The idea of God was invented in the small hours of history by a scamp who had genius; it somehow reeks too much of humanity, that idea, to make its azure origin plausible; by which I do not mean that it is the fruit of crass ignorance; that scamp of mine was skilled in celestial lore - and really I wonder which variation of Heaven is best: that dazzle of argus-eyed angels fanning their wings, or that curved mirror in which a self-complacent professor of physics recedes, getting ever smaller and smaller. There is yet another reason why I cannot, nor wish to, believe in God: the fairy tale about him is not really mine, it belongs to strangers, to all men; it is soaked through by the evil-smelling effluvia of millions of other souls that have spun about a little under the sun and then burst; it swarms with primordial fears; there echoes in it a confused choir of numberless voices striving to drown one another." (p90)


I also liked Pale Fire - also featuring a unreliable narrator, with the added bonus of a non-standard narrative structure (a story told through an exegesis on a poem!)


Ah Nabokov. Sorry to ramble, I get a bit carried away with book-talk! I haven't read a huge number of his works, probably only five or six works, but everything I've read I've adored. If I could write half as well (in a second language to boot!) I'd be a very, very happy woman.

[hardblue.livejournal.com]

I think "Despair" will have to be my next Nabokov book, maybe even this summer, now that you have whetted my appetite. I suspect I'll enjoy "Pale Fire" more after I am more steeped in his ways.

And you write well enough to meet him more than halfway and to be fairly content with yourself. If you're talking about being able to put together a novel or a narrative, well, yeah, that is rather godly and something which few mortals can seriously venture upon. I've made my own peace with my mortalness and am content enough to enjoy reading such works and losing my soul in them.