Having just re-read this novel once more, probably for the very last time, I'm struck by a few things. First off, without a doubt, Lolita is a great novel and Nabokov was a fantastic writer.
I picked this back up because I had read about the hullabaloo concerning his final unpublished novel that had been in the custody of his son. I had also heard the story on NPR how everything he worked on, he planned out of index cards, which as a writer, sounded very familiar and incredibly intriguing. Writers always want to know exactly how their peers and heroes are pulling off their masterpieces. It's like looking behind the curtain in certain aspects. The truth is though, even great writers stumble, great men do cry, women have secrets, and so on. Yes, I know ...
The first two-thirds of this book is very patiently written, complex and incredibly absorbing. In some places the reader almost feels guilty of reading something taboo and disgust creeps under the door frame quietly causing mild disturbance. Certain passages almost make you want to throw the book to the floor and go wash you hands of it, but you know that it was all intentional. Some of Nabokov's best writing is achieved in the first portions of this book without a doubt, and a few passages are indelible, touching and even sweet.
However, without gilding the lilly with praise which is easy to do, I must say that this book also has a few flaws. While the realism of the conclusion is probably factual and not fantasy, the tone of the writing obviously shifts because of it. Nabokov strings you along into dizzying heights of all kinds of interest and intrigue and then pulls the carpet out as the book closes, drying out his text like beef jerky left on hot concrete in the midday sun -- forcing real life down your throat in a very mechanical manner. I often wonder if some of this was due to the material itself, or suggestions and changes made by his agent or subsequent changes that he made himself during the editing process and so on. I can imagine his representation being frightened to push this book.
The point is that 'Lolita' almost collapses in on itself with it's ending. It seems like an ending to a different book entirely. Like the mid section of Oliver Twist where the lascivious and murderous deeds are removed for the length of almost a bible whilst our young Twist becomes a country squire and we have to endure a failing love-affair, the story degrades, interest wanes and the conclusion is read to the end, because you are compelled to see the ending even if it doesn't seem to fit with the rest of the story. Many good books have the tendency to fall apart, but the world of novels is not today what it was yesterday and such is the curse of change, marketing and popular culture. It makes a person wonder if Nabokov wasn't making a parody of himself here and denigrating it openly by naming himself Humbert Humbert.
I think realistic conclusions are often better than overly-dramatic or contrived ones to be honest. I've done that myself and in the same genre, but if Nabokov had to submit Lolita today to the grinder of New York literary acceptance, the world would probably be minus one book.
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