Bob's Books: Making Sense of "Lolita"

The word pedophile has Greek roots: pedo meaning “child” and philos meaning “loving”; reference these word-roots in other familiar words like pediatrician­—a child healer (iatrikos means “healing”), or philosophy—a lover of wisdom (sophia means “wisdom” or “learning”). While the practice of “child loving” also goes back at least as far as ancient Greece—where sexual intimacy between boys and their teachers was commonplace—I fully support, along with the vast majority of America, dolling out increasingly harsh punishments to those who destroy the innocence and self-worth of children for what is, in the end, a selfish and atrocious act.

Given this the appalling nature of this violation, it seems an odd for a topic for literary treatment. After all, there are so many things about which authors COULD write, why would anyone attempt, on any level, to examine the pedophile? Yet, Lolita (Random House, 1955), by Vladimir Nabokov, does just this by examining the pedophilic relationship of a grown man and a young girl and the complications which arise.

Nabokov seems to take great pains, before the story even begins, to ensure that his condemnation of pedophilia is clear: the story told in Lolita is four-times-separated from Nabakov. The narration is framed as the personal confessions of “Humbert Humbert” (first separation)—a pseudonym for the narrator (second separation)—which were only printed by H. H.’s lawyer (third separation) after H. H. died (fourth separation) while still serving out his time in jail for the crimes discussed in the novel. In a sense, Nabokov lets the reader know that he hates the subject matter—hates it so much that he will not be associated with the story itself (hence all the frames)—and has already found the protagonist guilty—so guilty that the protagonist died in captivity before the story was even told.

However, following this condemnation, we start at the beginning of H. H.’s life and walk with him through his earliest memories and into his obsession with the young Lolita; an obsession which becomes both his raison d’etre and ultimate downfall. H. H. is a tragic anti-hero captured between self-loathing and conceit; an anti-hero whose self-compelled and selfish quest to obtain an ultimately unachievable prize results in a fixation on an ideal that Lolita eventually embodies; and thus, for a time, a fixation on the body of Lolita. This fixation turns to stagnation and eventually damnation as H. H.’s pursuit of this untenable, self-created archetype destroys everything he touches.

Less explicit but perhaps more prominent is the role of Lolita. She is the named focal point of the novel, but we are given less insight into her journey since the novel is bound by the perspective of the narrator. However, from what little we do find out, there is reason find hope in Lolita’s journey. It is not the blissful adventure of Little Orphan Annie, but a tale of deep and profound strength, perseverance, and instinct. These qualities could be dismissed as the delusions of a biased observer (namely the knowlingly-obsessed H. H.), but there is an energy and purpose in Lolita’s actions—a transfer of power from H. H. to Lolita which happens slowly as the narrative progresses—which seems to indicate Nabokov’s purposeful attempt to thwart H. H. and give some measure of assurance to the reader that things will turn out alright.

What makes this novel worth reading is the ability of its author. Nabokov’s novel is not a lurid string of explicit and disturbing sexual conquests. Indeed, while there are a few sexual encounters implied in the novel, they are neither gratuitous nor explicit. In fact, a crowning achievement of the book is the way in which Nabokov’s prose captures the awkward cowardice of these acts without ever disclosing details of the actual encounter. More astonishing though is that even at the end of this story—after accompanying H. H. on this journey of wreckage and destruction—Nabokov is able to keep the reader from utterly despising H. H. on some level. Instead, when reflecting on the many life journeys in Lolita, we are left with a complex mixture of hate and empathy; sadness and hopefulness; loathing and love; anguish and sanguinity; left—as with all great literature—wondering what might have been.

In Lolita, Nabokov demonstrates his mastery of narration by treating this despicable subject and an even more heinous protagonist with an evenhandedness and confidence that is unparalleled. While this topic is a veritable minefield, Nabokov is able to navigate through Lolita with poise and insight, leaving him unscathed and making Lolita a singular reading experience. There are many who will never read Lolita or be able to see beyond the subject matter of the book, yet in this story Nabokov does the very thing that his protagonist, H. H., could not do: Nabokov successfully completes his self-selected quest for a seemingly unachievable goal by making an odious accounting of one man’s life into a work of supreme literary merit.

Bob's Books: The Universe in a Single Atom

I have always had a soft spot for grand ideas. You know, ideas that, on the surface, seem detached and theoretical, but, if true, have profound implications on how we situate ourselves in relation to the rest of the universe: Copernicus’ assertion that the earth revolved around the sun, the theory of evolution, and the discovery of DNA’s double helix… these are grand ideas. In The Universe in a Single Atom (Broadway Books, 2005), His Holiness the Dali Lama—who also has as soft spot for grand ideas—examines modern scientific revolutions and offers us his thoughts on how humanity and grand ideas converge.

He begins by tackling the physical nature of the world through a detailed examination of Newtonian, Einsteinian, and Quantum physics. Linking the Buddhist idea of “dependent origination”—the notion that the existence of any thing in the universe is reliant upon its relationship to other things—to Einstein’s theories of relativity and the to quantum mechanics, His Holiness argues that far from only being scientific descriptions of matter, these scientific theories are worldviews with implications for human action. Once we see the world as relative and transient, we will be able to avoid the materialism and envy that is the cause of so much sadness and be more kind to other sentient life.

He moves from there into a discussion of the origin of life. Though the Dali Lama concedes that Darwin’s explanation of evolution is perhaps plausible to explain the variety of flora and fauna on earth, he questions its focus on competitive victory as the defining characteristic for success and questions why compassion is not considered in this theory

The Dali Lama goes on to explore modern neuroscience and cognitive psychology, arguing that their attempts to explain consciousness are, ultimately, limited due to the subjective nature of consciousness. Modern science may be able to point to the part of the brain that process color or discuss how to we think about color, but it will never be able to explain the phenomenological experience of seeing a color.

As a bookend, His Holiness investigates the bioethical considerations that accompany cloning, gene therapy, selective reproduction and the like. He argues that we are in a place where our technology is moving faster than our ethical discussion, and encourages all of society to become engaged in debates on these topics before it is too late.

For Buddhism, the purpose of life is the cessation of suffering and the development of compassion. It is not enough, he argues, to explain the world around us through science, there must be a next step: somehow science must benefit humanity. In the words of the Dali Lama, “a full human understanding must not only offer a coherent account of reality, our means of apprehending it, and the place of consciousness but also include a clear awareness of how we should act.”

This book is a fulfilling exploration of the vast scope of modern science and a comforting reminder of the need for spirituality. The Dali Lama’s approach to the nexus of science and spirituality is humble and contemplative; sophisticated and approachable. And while I am grateful he took the time to share these thoughts with us, I find myself wishing for a world where his call for a return to spirituality, ethics, and compassion is unnecessary.

Bob's Books: Neruda and the everyday

Editor's note: Bob's Books is an exciting new addition to The Saylavee Times. From time to time, Bob will be discussing various books and authors for the enjoyment of our readers.

As I navigated the tight aisle in coach I looked at my assigned seat and saw that the seat next to mine was already occupied. I tried to convince myself that it was ok (to be honest, my thought process was something along the lines of “great… I hope that lady isn’t wearing too much perfume and doesn’t try to steal my armrest). When I got to the seat, I tried to smile; it did not work very well. Noticing that she was Latina—and having just spent the week in Honduras—I involuntarily greeted her in Spanish, “¿Como esta?” She replied warmly, “Muy bien, gracias.”

I sat down and claimed my armrest. A simple turn of the head which probably appeared to be a glance out the window, was really a stealthy olfactory investigation to see if my allergies were going to suffer from a perfume-bomb… *sniff* *sniff*… nope, no perfume. Looks to be a good flight. Then I saw it: she was holding Cien Anos de Solidad­ (One Hundred Years of Solitude) by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and that changed everything.

This brings me to my inaugural “Bob’s Books” entry. In the course of our discussion, my Bolivian friend asked me who my favorite Latino writer was. The choice was easy: Pablo Neruda. During the mid-1950’s his poetry moved from the political to odes of the simple and common. An English poetic form made most famous British Romantics like Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats, and Shelly, odes traditionally sought to praise the extraordinary, to acknowledge the superior nature of things, and to remind all of the glory an object holds. Yet Neruda’s odes changed all this. Rather than praising the Grecian Urn, a Nightingale, or Melancholy, Neruda chose as the subject matter of his odes the common things of life: socks, salt, clothes, cats, tomatoes, and wine.

Many of Neruda’s odes were published in collections of poetry like, Odas elementales (Elemental Odes) (1954), Nuevas Odas Elementales (New Elemental Odes) (1956) and Navegaciones y regresos (Voyages and Homecoming); however his odes are easily accessible on the internet (just search for “Neruda Odes”). It was partly this recognition of the glory of everyday objects—the way he turned the snobbish ode on its head—that won him the Nobel Prize in 1971. More importantly however, his “odes to the every day” remind us all how wonderful the little things in life really are.

In “Ode to My Socks,” Neruda tells of receiving a pair of handmade wool socks. After receiving this gift, the narrator says: “I slipped / my feet into them / as if / into / jewel cases / woven / with threads of / dusk / and sheep's wool.” He gazed at these “celestial socks” and with satisfaction notes: “They were / so beautiful / that for the first time / my feet seemed / unacceptable to me.” Similarly, in “Ode to Salt” Neruda sees not just a common seasoning. Instead, he experiences it through all his senses, and examines the mystery of salt’s origin. He imagines, “In its caves / the salt moans” and sees it as a “mountain / of buried light, / translucent cathedral, / crystal of the sea, oblivion / of the waves.” Tasting the salt, he notes, “Dust of the sea, in you / the tongue receives a kiss / from ocean night.”

Out of a seemingly banal thing, Neruda finds the extraordinary; out of the singular object, he identifies the universal. These are things that all people share—regardless of where you live, who runs your country, and what God you worship (if you worship a God at all). Since all people share these banal and singular objects, we also all share the extraordinary and universal commonalities associated with these objects. It is in enjoyment of socks and salt, Neruda seems to argue, that we find the seeds of humanity and peace.

It is through the humanity of literature that I found common ground with a woman from Bolivia. Though we had very little in common, our brief discussion on the literary merit of Marquez and other Latino writers led to a much longer dialogue on family, friends, and home. This is what literature can do. Thoughtfully placed words cross all ethnic, gender, and political lines. Literature can expose those universalities with which all humans can identify; words are, perhaps the most ordinary part of human existence, and yet they have the ability to bind the entire human race. Neruda’s final thoughts on salt could equally apply to the miraculous power of language: “the smallest, / miniature / wave from the saltcellar / reveals to us / more than domestic whiteness; / in it, we taste infinitude.”