Much Madness is Divinest Sense

If at times Lolita is difficult to wade through, I suppose the reader can chalk that up to the narrator’s admitted psychiatric problems. This book was hard to finish on many levels. First of all, the language itself is dense and beautiful, but requires the constant attention of the reader. I was unable to simply flip through pages, and I often had to go back and re-read things I’d missed. I wish I had a footnoted copy of this book in order to translate all the French I’ve forgotten since high school, as Humbert was so fond of throwing French speech into the narrative. Second, the narrator is absolutely despicable and reprehensible. I have to say that anyone who uses the term “Lolita” to refer to a sexually-aggressive female adolescent probably has not read this book. It is clear that poor Lolita is very much a victim of Humbert Humbert — a point made clear even though it is told only through his point of view. He is an unreliable narrator. His language, his intelligence are meant to beautify his actions and evoke sympathy from the reader, and a quick glance at several Amazon reviews for this book demonstrate that many readers do fall for his story. Humbert Humbert is a creepy pedophile, even if he is gifted with language. He admits to hanging out in places where he is likely to see girls in his target “attraction range,” which is a trait common to pedophiles. He is unattracted to girls or women of any other age range.

Interestingly, Nabokov’s allusions to Edgar Allan Poe’s work really made me see Poe in a new light — a sort of Humbert Humbert, if you will. As an American Literature teacher, I know Poe married his pubescent cousin. I always thought it was weird. After reading this novel, I see it as weird on a whole new level. Humbert excuses his lust for Lolita through allusions to other times, when grown men took child brides. I had always excused Poe’s behavior that way, but I find now that I don’t. Poe’s behavior was pedophiliac. Humbert christens his first love Annabel Leigh (a clear reference to Poe’s poem “Annabel Lee”). I do think a familiarity with Poe is helpful to readers of this novel.

I think this novel is open to both a literal and symbolic interpretation, which is one of the reasons it was stimulating intellectually. Humbert represents Europe — jaded, cynical, refined, intelligent, formal, but also corrupt. Lolita, on the other hand, represents America — young, uncouth, unrefined, naive. America raped and corrupted by the Old World. I think that it is an interesting way to look at the novel, and it works. As Nabokov emigrated to America, I have to wonder if the clash in cultures he experienced didn’t contribute to some of the ideas expressed in the novel.

I am glad I read this book. In a way, I feel like an initiate into a special literature club. It was really hard, though, and I wanted to smack the narrator constantly. He’s very clever, but he’s evil. I argue with the notion that this is an erotic novel. Humbert’s pedophilia is anything but erotic. I don’t see how readers could walk away from this book and feel that Nabokov was endorsing the idea that a grown man and a girl child can have a normal sexual relationship. In other words, Nabokov does not glamorize pedophilia or make it seem in any way romantic — quite the reverse. I am, however, no longer surprised that it is controversial — it astonishes me that Nabokov found a publisher for such fare in the 1950’s. The novel is beautifully written, and even funny in places, but ultimately, it is so sad — even Humbert eventually acknowledges that he ruined Lolita’s life. I think Lolita is a very good study of the mindset of a pedophile, and I shouldn’t be too surprised to learn that psychologists might study it for that reason.

Alice Hoffman’s book Blackbird House is subtitled “A Novel,” but it really isn’t. It is more accurately described as a series of vignettes, as the chapters do not feel complete enough to even be called short stories. Blackbird House, set on Cape Cod, takes place at different times between the pre-Revolutionary period to the present, tracing the stories of various owners of the home across over 200 years. San Francisco Chronicle reviewer Irene Wanner accurately described Hoffman’s narrative:

For the most part, these episodes operate without the formal short-fiction structure of conflict, climax and resolution; the book isn’t a story collection. Neither is it a traditional novel centered on a main character’s problem. Instead, setting and time serve as the book’s linking device.

I thought the idea was very intriguing, which is what caused me to purchase the book. In execution, it doesn’t work, largely because just as the reader gets to know the characters, the narrative moves on to the next story, most often introducing new characters with new stories. The reader never seems to find out the endings of any of the stories that Hoffman starts.

Hoffman weaves her narrative together with several symbols — the color red, the white blackbird, the red pear tree, and the sweet peas, most of which make an appearance in each story. I started to dread the sight of that white blackbird. In the apt words of Houston Chronicle writer Sharan McBride:

The trouble with Hoffman’s linked narrative is that tragedy and losses that seem moving and affecting early in the book begin to feel manipulative and programmed by the 12th story. And when a white blackbird appears or someone smells the wild sweet peas in the field, you know a loved one is going to get whacked as surely as you do when the camera looks up into the cold eyes of Tony Soprano.

There is too much sadness and grief, and perhaps because the reader never gets the whole story in any one of the vignettes, it is easy to wonder what purpose there is in so much tragedy. I think I just wanted more from this book, as a reader, than it felt like it was willing to give. Perhaps that was Hoffman’s goal. In the end, it seemed that the only permanent aspect of life was the house, which outlived each of her occupants, and was ultimately more interesting than all of them.