Humbert Humbert's Journal

          H.H's Journal entries, that he does not actually possess when he is "writing" Lolita in jail, are very curious. He claims to remember them verbatim, which makes me, the reader, suspicious about this sudden outstanding memory. If Humbert can remember his journal entries that he wrote long ago word for word, why is it, then, that he cannot remember certain details and certain moments of his past?

       Humbert's journal entries mirror his overall style. However, the journals seem more complex and metaphoric than the rest of the novel. It is almost more rant-y than the rest of Humbert's writing, and he tends to write in third person half the time. H.H. will go on personal rants about his beloved Lolita, interjecting moments of elation that had not been included before. This, in my opinion, is where the book reaches a sort of climax, because this is where we really see the beloved Lo come alive. We see her vividly and we see her move and breathe and live for the first time. This is, arguably, the moment that Lolita actually becomes a character rather than a passive fairytale, which may be the reason Nabokov incorporated these journal entries into the narrative of Humbert Humbert in the first place. However, it still brings in to question the reliability of his memory. Suddenly, any moment in which H.H. can't "recall" something becomes an elaborate lie to trick the reader. Yet, it could also be another way for Humbert Humbert to clarify how powerful his love for Lolita is.

H.H.'s journal entries mark a pivotal moment in Lolita, because it is the first moment that Humbert not only shows weakness, but true passion and vendetta for his beloved nymphet.

Unreliable Memory

The passage on page fifteen about Humbert Humbert's time as a young man reads as follows, and, to me, is extremely intriguing:

   "The days of my youth, as I look back on them, seem to fly away from me

in a flurry of pale repetitive scraps like those morning snow storms of used

tissue paper that a train passenger sees whirling in the wake of the

observation car. In my sanitary relations with women I was practical,

ironical and brisk. While a college student, in London and Paris, paid

ladies sufficed me. My studies were meticulous and intense, although not

particularly fruitful. At first, I planned to take a degree in psychiatry

and many manquè talents do; but I was even more manquè than

that; a peculiar exhaustion, I am so oppressed, doctor, set in; and I

switched to English literature, where so many frustrated poets end as

pipe-smoking teachers in tweeds. Paris suited me. I discussed Soviet movies

with expatriates. I sat with uranists in the Deux Magots. I published

tortuous essays in obscure journals."

The beginning of this short paragraph struck me the most, because H.H. notes that the days of his youth "fly away" from him. This makes me wonder about the reliability of his memory. The days of his youth come to him like a blur, but yet, he can recite verbatim the journal entries that were written during the early days of his time with Lolita. It's arguable that maybe H.H is trying to make a point that his life without Lolita was banal and unworthy of remembering, but even still he can remember with vivid imagery his Annabel and the time with his "wretched" first wife whom he did not love at all. Just the first sentence of the above paragraph raises some suspicion about his memory. It's almost as if, by saying he remembers vividly anything that happened with Lolita, he is justifying everything that he did. Because he cannot remember everything before. Because his memory has been blinded by love. In this passage, Humber then goes on to explain that he switched to English literature and wrote "tortuous essay's" as if to paint a picture of his youth without really having to talk about it. His life without an Annabel, and then without Lolita, is nothing but discussing Soviet movies and sitting with uranists in the Deux Magots. It makes me wonder whether there is any reliability in his memory other than to recount things in order to justify everything that happened afterwards. 

The Enchanter

      Reading the Enchanter as a predecessor to Lolita was quite the interesting experience. Because I've read Lolita once before, I couldn't help but marvel at how much the story changed from this novella to its more mature novel. I couldn't help but be incredibly surprised at how much active voice can triumph over passive voice in this instance, especially when pertaining to this kind of perverse topic. I mean, both versions of the story deal with a hemophiliac, which is uncomfortable in it's own right, but I'd like to argue that the Enchanter far trumps Lolita in its perversity and overall creepiness. When I read Lolita a few years ago, though appalled by Humbert Humbert's actions, I found myself enticed by the language and active voice of the protagonist. However, though The Enchanter was still full of luxurious prose, I found myself not enticed but incredibly repelled and appalled. The actions of this underdeveloped, unnamed protagonist suddenly doubled in perversity and doubled in being extremely uncharismatic and monstrous. All the charm and wit and charisma of Humbert Humbert had not yet arrived to Nabokov, and this is something that is made quite obvious to the reader. Needless to say, if Nabokov had stopped the story here, one could argue (and will argue) that it would not be the literary classic it is today but instead, a perverse, perverted piece of literature read only for the purpose of making readers squirm. And squirm I did. I've never felt so uncomfortable reading anything in my entire life.

Which brings me to the molestation scene. I can't remember vividly how it went in Lolita, but I definitely don't think that version made the impression this scene did on me.

  "Finally making up his mind, he gently stroked her long, just slightly parted, faintly sticky legs, which grew cooler and a little coarser on the way down, and progressively warmer farther up. He recalled, with a furious sense of triumph, the roller skates, the sun, the chestnut trees, everything– while he kept stroking with his fingertips, trembling and casting sidelong looks at the plump promontory, with it's brand-new downiness, which, independently but with a familial parallel, embodied a concentrated echo of something about her lips and cheeks" (71).

    This passage alone is enough to make anyone feel uncomfortable, though it is just the beginning and could be defined as tame compared to the rest of the scene– especially once one realizes that they are not reading a scene from a horrible Harlequin romance novel but in fact what is beginning to become a sexual encounter with a pre-pubescent girl. There is no doubt that is is well written, and there is no doubt that Nabokov is trying to make his reader uncomfortable. And he succeeds. He succeeds in ways I'm sure he did not think possible. This scene, in my opinion, was the reason he scrapped this novella and went on to write Lolita. Because, though Lolita crosses the boundaries of social norms, this scene pushes those boundaries too far.
     

Response #1

Hello, I am completely aware how late this post is and you can begin your persecution for such lateness now. I completely forgot about it. But, better late than never, right?

Anyway, Nabokov's personality excerpt from Strong Opinions comes off as a bit crass and as if he is trying extremely hard to answer all of his questions without actually answering them. It seems that in fact, yes, his personality as a writer is almost a completely different distinction from his personality as a person. Nabokov as a writer is meticulous with an eye for beautiful prose while Nabokov as a regular human being seems a bit introverted and egotistical. He wished to be perceived as a mystery to an outside world, and this interview catalogued that perfectly. However, his literary values are shown to be so intense as if they were their own religion and so meticulous. Even half of his interview answers were written and, most likely, erased and rewritten several times. What struck me most about this interview– and, also, what made me laugh about it– was Nabokov's complete deterrence to directly answering any questions. He was constantly going on and on, bringing the interviewer in circles. Also, he is constantly trying to define himself as an individual. When asked who his literary idols are, he responds that he doesn't in fact look up to anyone, and again goes on about individuality.
Very strange. But very unique all the while.

It is evident from these readings that Nabokov has a passion for literature that is continuously ignited, and his well worded, beautifully written interview answers are there solely to prove it.