Todo Tiene Su Como-Se-Llama

Yes, of course, but can it be done?

This is the reply that leaps unbidden to mind when I ask myself, "Do I really want to attempt to produce a deconstructive analysis of Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita in (ostensibly) seven pages or less for presentation at the Student Literary Conference in early December worth 20% of my Literary Criticism grade?" This way madness seems to lie.

And yet, I rather believe that this is something which I must undertake. I am at a critical point in my education: just knowledgeable enough to have the capacity to produce such a paper, and just dumb enough to apply that critical theory to this novel. Only now do I possess together the essential tools I am required to employ and the lack of academic face to lose. I want to do a good job with this paper.

At this point, I had composed a lengthy examination of the problems I foresaw with the writing of such a paper, and the solutions I expected to encounter. But that was really boring, and all I really wanted, I think, was an excuse (however tenuous) to reproduce two very interesting pieces of poetry composed by Humbert Humbert within Lolita. I believe, however, that they are excuse enough by themselves. They are below the fold. Make of them what you will.

The first is written in the fit of madness suffered by H. H. directly after Dolores is spirited away by "McFate." It is tragically sweet on one level, but the rhyme and rhythm give it an air of pathetic comedy, and the context creates a total effect that is simply haunting. The reader struggles between sympathy and revulsion. H. H. himself refers to it as "a maniac's masterpiece" (257).

The second is the poem which H. H. forces "McFate" (avoiding possible spoilers by not naming names) to read aloud when he finally catches up to him. The critical work I am consulting calls this poem a parody of T. S. Eliot's "Ash Wednesday," and earlier explains that Nabokov wasn't particularly impressed with Eliot's poetry. It's most interesting feature is the way in which McFate's snide interjections seem to be part of the poem even as they tear apart the dramatic effect of the thing.

Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze.
Hair: brown. Lips: scarlet.
Age: five thousand three hundred days.
Profession: none, or "starlet."

Where are you hiding, Dolores Haze?
Why are you hiding, darling?
(I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze,
I cannot get out, said the starling).

Where are you riding, Dolores Haze?
What make is the magic carpet?
Is a Cream Cougar the present craze?
And where are you parked, my car pet?

Who is your hero, Dolores Haze?
Still one of those blue-caped star-men?
Oh the balmy days and the palmy bays,
And the cars, and the bars, my Carmen!

Oh Dolores, that juke-box hurts!
Are you still dancin', darlin'?
(Both in worn levis, both in torn T-shirts,
And I, in my corner, snarlin').

Happy, happy is gnarled McFate
Touring the States with a child wife,
Plowing his Molly in every State
Among the protected wild life.

My Dolly, my folly! Her eyes were vair,
And never closed when I kissed her.
Know an old perfume called Soleil Vert?
Are you from Paris, mister?

L'autre soir un air froid d'opéra m'alita:
Son félé - bien fol est qui s'y fie!
Il neige, le décor s'écroule, Lolita!
Lolita, qu'ai-je fait de ta vie?

Dying, dying, Lolita Haze,
Of hate and remorse, I'm dying.
And again my hairy fist I raise,
And again I hear you crying.

Officer, officer, there they go -
In the rain, where that lighted store is!
And her socks are white, and I love her so,
And her name is Haze, Dolores.

Officer, officer, there they are -
Dolores Haze and her lover!
Whip out your gun and follow that car.
Now tumble out, and take cover.

Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze.
Her dream-gray gaze never flinches.
Ninety pounds is all she weighs
With a height of sixty inches.

My car is limping, Dolores Haze,
And the last long lap is the hardest,
And I shall be dumped where the weed decays,
And the rest is rust and stardust.

-Lolita, 255-257

Here goes. I see it's in verse.

Because you took advantage of a sinner
because you took advantage
because you took
because you took advantage of my disadvantage . . .

That's good, you know. That's damned good.

. . .when I stood Adam-naked
before a federal law and all its stinging stars

Oh, grand stuff!

Because you took advantage of a sin
when I was helpless moulting moist and tender
hoping for the best
dreaming of marriage in a mountain state
aye of a litter of Lolitas . . .

Didn't get that.

Because you took advantage of my inner
essential innocence
because you cheated me -

A little repetitious, what? Where was I?

Because you cheated me of my redemption
because you took
her at the age when lads
play with erector sets

Getting smutty, eh?

a little downy girl still wearing poppies
still eating popcorn in the colored gloam
where tawny Indians took paid croppers
because you stole her
from her wax-browed and dignified protector
spitting into his heavy-lidded eye
ripping his flavid toga and at dawn
leaving the hog to roll upon his new discomfort
the awfulness of love and violets
remorse depair while you
took a dull doll to pieces
and threw its head away
because of all you did
because of all I did not
you have to die

Well, sir, this is certainly a fine poem. Your best as far as I'm concerned.

-Lolita, 299-300

Posted by Jared at November 1, 2005 09:02 PM | TrackBack