In one of my undergrad classes, we had to read and re-read Nabokov’s short story The Nose, discuss its aspects and themes during every class, then write our own parody of it.  Among the more successful student parodies were The Backbone, The Middle Finger, and The Butt.  Mine was such a dismal failure that I don’t remember a word of it, or the body part it concerned.  The whole experience was, for me, a kind of literary taxidermy: taking the beast apart, removing its lungs, heart, liver, then putting it back together in such a way to make it look like the original, only slightly staged, and not at all alive.  The whole thing was supposed to teach us an important message about voice, and how to capture and somehow understand the notes of another’s voice that stand out and intrigue a reader the most.  The exercise succeeded in frustrating me, a frustration which I took out on Nabokov by refusing to take any interest in his other works.

Lolita has always been one of those books that people say, when its title is mentioned, “I tried to read that once, it was boring,” and then someone usually adds, “I had no idea what was going on!” This has been my experience, anyway.  The Nose was enough of an irritation for me to always believe this about Nabokov’s most famous work, though I knew very little about it.  I knew that it was scandalous when it was first published, that it dealt with an older man in love with a young girl, and that it was supposedly too confusing and long-winded to connect with and really appreciate. 

Imagine my surprise when a small, slender paperback was slipped into my mailbox a couple weeks ago.  I had decided to begin my Winter Reading Extravaganza with a challenge, a book that I had some prejudice against.  So I ordered dangerous little Lolita from half.com, and when it arrived, I thought, this is it?

Come on, Nabokov.  Bring it.

I have decided that everyone who said anything negative about this book is seriously missing something.  I never would have thought that this would be one of the books that I can’t put down, can’t wait to pick back up, that I daydream about, dog-ear the pages, copy the best passages in my notebook.  On lazy days, it takes a lot for me to turn off the idiot TV and do something that might create brain cells, but while I was reading Lolita, I don’t think I turned my TV on once.  I only wish the book had been longer. 

I’m happy to overcome my prejudice for this book and its racy subject matter.  It’s interesting how many people commented on the fact that I was reading it, and then bordered their comment with something like, “Isn’t that book really dirty?” It’s a shame that people recognize this novel only because they have heard the darker bits about it.  People see a copy of Lolita, they make the connection in their minds that it’s 1950’s pornography, and they dismiss it.  Or they consider it boring.  For me, the real beauty of the book lies in the emergence of a love story from behind the curtain of blinding, forbidden lust.  It seems that so few books keep your mind from guessing, from spacing out on a paragraph, jumping ahead and betting on what’s going to happen, without even knowing you’re doing it.  The first-person account of the story, written by the main character from his prison cell in 56 days, keeps you moving, so completely enmeshed in the madness, the lust, and eventually a real romance, your feet never touch the ground.

My only sadness is that Nabokov wrote the novel in 1955, and died in 1977.  Though it was the publication and success of Lolita that allowed Nabokov to quit teaching, move to Europe, and write full-time, I don’t think that a mere 22 years is enough time for a writer to appreciate the ripples and waves created by such a masterpiece.