I like reading the classics and I like reading the tough books, I like slow reading and puzzling things out. What I don’t like about reading celebrated books is the sneaking suspicion that I am supposed to be entertained when I’m not. It’s like being the only one who isn’t in on the joke. The celebrated books often don’t pull me along much when I’m scanning what appears to be so much dull text looking for the next little nugget. I’m bothered that the passage which seems so blank to me might be brilliant but that I’m just not sharp enough to enjoy it. Which brings me to Lolita, I’ve read descriptions of this book that made me laugh out-loud. The book itself didn’t, I suppose I’m a little too obtuse to pick up on the humor that inspired the commentators who did entertain me.
Clearly, Nabokov is engage in a love affair with the English language and like any great lover he is blinded, no charmed, by the short comings of his beloved. The prose is lush but I rarely encounter any profound insights in this foliage. Lush is a good word in this case, the deep forest is free of grand vistas.
There were the occasional passages that brought me to stop. Most noticeably HH’s epiphany on seeing the no-longer nymphish Lolita is sadly beautiful life.
I many ways, I get the joke, the self-justification of a child-molester who finds that, in the end, his desire for Lolita does not transcend time. She’s still doomed to be the semi-literate pregnant wife of a one-armed semi-employed man. It makes me thing about the meditations on transcendence and the erotic in Plato and, frankly, at least at this moment, Plato bores me.