#4 Lolita (1955)

Vladimir Nabokov

Lolita is a Big Deal.  Since the day it first appeared in its unobtrusive green wrappers it has given rise to a sustained, high-pitched keening sound — the sound of everyone freaking right out.  It has inspired people to write essays with many words in them.  It has inspired people to wring their hands and besiege librarians on behalf of those delicate blossoms, the children.  To produce even 600-1000 words on this novel in a hitherto un-utilized combination is a nervewracking proposition.  Tonight I will probably dream that a scowling Martin Amis is putting a cigarette out on my neck.  Or Nabokov himself will appear and tell me that he’s having a party but I’m not invited.  I have in fact read the book, which is more than I suspect can be said for a few of its detractors, and it is in the Modern Library top five, so I have to get to it sometime.  The only thing to do is soldier on, unafraid.

If Lolita were a Craigslist ad, here’s how it would go: Charming older man seeks very young lady for companionship and more.  Orphans preferred.  Knobby knees a plus.  Benefits include missing school, unlimited sodas.  This position is full-time; compensation negotiated daily.  No fatties or phone calls, please.

Yes.  Lolita is a novel about a man who wants to have sex with little girls,  and who indeed has sex with one little girl in particular.  Therein lies the freakout.  Here’s my theory: As human beings we have collectively decided that children are off-limits, which is an excellent place for them.  And while good people are often quite willing to go (in a literary sense) on sexy romps inside the minds of cheaters, beaters, thieves, murderers, or other kinds of assholes, relishing thoughts and experiences that are far outside their common round, they are scandalized when they realize they have been having a great time with this monster Humbert.  Laughing at his jokes.  Sighing with relief when his dumb wife gets hit with a car and leaves him to ravage the little one in peace.  Thinking, even, that the little one deserves her treatment.  Maybe getting an accidental boner during the sexy parts.  I think that freaking out about this book’s content is a form of protesting too much, when you don’t need to protest at all.  It’s okay to like Humbert.  That’s the point of the book.  This man Nabokov was a genius.  He used words in a language that was not his own to make you think a molester was kind of a fun guy.  To write like this in any language, let alone your second, is a goddamned miracle.  I want to say settle down and don’t take it all so seriously but that is what people say when other people legitimately call them out for being racist or sexist or one of the other popular ists.  Words do matter.  I guess what I’m trying to say is that if this book sticks in your craw think about it this way: Lolita matters because it is about an unsavory topic; because it is in a sense the ne plus ultra of what language and art can do.

If you get all this but think it’s wrong to use words to make comedy out of something horrible, that’s fair enough.  You should, however, turn off the television, cancel your internet service and avoid the company of others.  Then there are people who simply don’t like the book because they think it’s bad writing or something, which is of course fine too.  That’s just, like, your opinion.  At any rate, all this territory is well-trod.  The only thing to do is share a personal testimonial from me, your friend Widmerpool.  One Saturday I had a small hangover.  I mixed tuna fish with yogurt, a touch of mayonnaise, green onion, and lemon and put it on melba toast crackers.  I poured a coca-cola over ice.  I took the snacks to the couch, lay down, and read Lolita all the way through.  Verily it was one of the most pleasant days of my life.  And that’s what reading is all about.

Sexy time! Lolita was first published in two volumes by the sexy Olympia press of Paris, after which it was promptly banned in France, and remained so for three years.  The first issue is expensive, but not scarce.  There are a number of copies between $3,000 and $11,500, with signed or presentation copies at $39,000 and $50,000.  Here is a nearly fine copy which Between the Covers is selling for $9,000:

The first American edition is New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, (1955).  The first printing is not uncommon but varies wildly in price from the middle $100 region to $5,000, largely depending on condition.  Here is a near fine copy in a near fine jacket, which Royal books is selling for $2,750:

The first British edition was London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1959.  There are a number of copies from, $100-$500.  Here is a very good copy in a goodish dust jacket, from Madoc books:

Next!