I grew up in a city where children begged. Where their clothes were riddle with holes and their feet were bare and bleeding. That world is still out there. It's the kind of world that most people I know would never see. But it is those eyes and those reaching hands that come out in the dark and touch me. There are many moments in my life where I feel stretched to do something for them. I have often wanted to just give my lunch-box, my clothes, everything that I had so that they could sleep easy for just that one day. I realize now that the poverty itself is a very fundamental thing in any city, any place. There are so many people who are poor for something. Not just money. There are more than just money that makes someone happy. It could be something as small as a found butterfly wing. A smooth rock. And the more I thought about it, the more I understood that I have certain things that other people may never have. Maybe they have the small something that I have been searching for all my life.I grew up in a city where children begged. Where their clothes were riddle with holes and their feet were bare and bleeding. That world is still out there. It's the kind of world that most people I know would never see. But it is those eyes and those reaching hands that come out in the dark and touch me. There are many moments in my life where I feel stretched to do something for them. I have often wanted to just give my lunch-box, my clothes, everything that I had so that they could sleep easy for just that one day. I realize now that the poverty itself is a very fundamental thing in any city, any place. There are so many people who are poor for something. Not just money. There are more than just money that makes someone happy. It could be something as small as a found butterfly wing. A smooth rock. And the more I thought about it, the more I understood that I have certain things that other people may never have. Maybe they have the small something that I have been searching for all my life.
The problem with the narratives inside my head is that they are not logical or well considered. They are not the way stories should unfold, and this is what makes me afraid. The people inside my head are not real. They don't have names and they aren't completely drawn together. But what keeps them alive is that they have the rhythm of a story stitched inside them like vital organs, all moving together in an ancient dance. The people in my head walk with each other and haunt me in the daytime. Do you know what is like to hold a secret inside of you that you can't tell no one? It drives you to become mad. You itch and claw into the deepest recesses of your waking memory to find the words. But you can't find the right thing to say. You are perpetually afraid that you won't do these people's stories justice. And every night it is as though they all stand in the middle of your room and breath in all thrust a pen into your hands. You make desperate scrapes on paper to save yourself from drowning in the oceans of people you harbor. And do you know why I write? I write because if I don't do it, I am not certain that I will live the next day. I wrote because I am helpless at doing anything else. Words are the only thing that my hands understand. And when everything is taken away from me, they are all that I will have.
The Writing
The story is a retrospective from...from...from where? What? Prison. Ostensibly. And yet, there hasn’t been a trial yet--no judgement. Nabakov tantalizes you, “ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” to pass judgement on Humbert Humbert yourself. Are you willing? Or will you just turn your head, wincing?
I have never read another book written quite like Lolita. The writing has depth, layer upon layer, strata against strata, texture among texture, breathless, eloquent, exacting, alluring, inventive, sexy, pleading, conceited, lurid, savory, languid, and slyly self-deprecating. The author is flagrant, unapologetic, a dandy even and he has absolute command of the English and French and Latin language. He invents words. He hyphenates them. He nymphorizes them. It’s a gamboling and frolicking story in the rarefied air of an unrestrained, unapologetic and unadulterated polyhistoric writer. He whiffles the writing in so many little stylistic flourishes. He writes sentences and paragraphs in ways that I would never have guessed to try. It’s insanely periodic writing; I grab my head akimbo in pure awe of the sentences. It’s subtle and raw at the same time; it’s pure. Pure, like what happens in your neighborhood behind closed doors, just before an arrest. He incorporates a dry, brittle sense of humor--even a bit of sass. He taunts the reader to follow. He dares the reader to like and enjoy Humbert Humbert. He pokes you in the eye. He scandalizes you, but with a pen that is at once brutal and sensitive, but always careful. There are echoes of Joyce and Poe.
The Subject
Lolita is supposed to be shocking, revolting even, many people not able to finish it. Titillating, serious fiction about pedophilia is the clear edge of the literary envelope, something banned in many different communities, even today.
This 300+ page book chronicles a crime against a minor. Nabakov makes this an even more difficult sexual arrangement for his readers to contemplate, because the 12 year old is an eager, compliant and willing partner to the crime.
Enter Humbert Humbert. He suffers an atavistic urge to procreate with young nymphets. This is a social problem driven and turbocharged by the midbrain. He understands (his cortex understands) that the culture of the late 1940s and early 1950s find this taboo and perverse, definitely criminal. But our poor Humberto doesn’t care. He reasons with his midbrain, and pleads to us, "the jury." In the not too distant past within our own Western culture, and certainly in modern cultures of tribal peoples, 12 year old girls are ready to mate. Lolita has already menstruated and had sex with a boy her age. In many cultures of the world, Lolita would be given up as a wife in exchange for dowries of cattle, land, political favor. The whole story, then, brings this taboo to a moral question. And its a question that you--modern citizen--find uncomfortable, like I do.
Even more disturbing, Nabakov makes Humby Humberty a caring, loving, protective paternal figure that wishes Lolita the best in life. There is no direct, lewd reference to the act of sex; nothing salacious; nothing pornographic. No, that would be too easy to damn Humbo to the devil. Instead, Nabakov explores the possibility that real love may exist betwain the tween.
And, as much as I feel ashamed for being so taken in by Humby, I was fooled but, believe me, Lolita is a victim and no amount of saddening flashbacks to Humbert's past can change that.
There are 2 version of lolita's movie, one is filmed in 1962 and the other is 1997. When making a film about pedophile and a nymphet you are going to offend someone, The key is not to offend the whole audience. Kubrick's (1962) film cuts out a fair amount of the back story to turn the movie into dark comedy, where's as lyne's (1997) stays true to the story, making the movie much more dramatic.
Not to say that Lolita (1997) is bad. It's a very interesting take on the story and could be great if it was better executed. Its extreme shots shows its lack of commitment to the drama genre and are what ultimately bring down this film. Lolita (1962) is a truly beautiful and original film, so I really recommend you guys to watch Lolita (1962)
You are on the planet with a brain functional enough to formulate a question. True, there are some “What is the point?” days. There are days when everyone in the world has had the same idea you have had. You begin to feel like you’re spinning on the same wheel. The Earth and the sun and the wind are all going about their business but you feel as solid as a stone. Just let it all out. Don’t get yourself another notebook. It’s not a pretty place filled with blank pages. No, that is the worst possible idea. Get a book that’s already been filled with words. Something old, reeking even. Dug up from the mess that is your attic and your basement and every other forgotten room. Write the words that other people have already written. Memorize beautiful passages so that you can imbue them within your atoms. When people invent powerful enough microscopes (or better yet, bother to use their eyes) they will see the good inside of you. Write other people’s words down. Write them wherever there is space. On your arms, legs. I like writing from my elbow up. Write adventures on your ankles and draw on yourself. Put that pen to good use and colour in the empty canvas that is your skin. You don’t need to be the greatest person to figure it out. Do it without restraint. You can thank me when you are all inked up and pretty.
Every year you grow. You learn. You meet new people. You experience new things. You cry. You smile etc. But most of all, you make mistakes. We’re far from being perfect. We have our faults and flaws but that doesn’t make us any less beautiful.
No New Year resolution for me, but it’ll be the same note like how I started my 2012;
Survive another day, one day at a time.
Along the way: I will dedicated my being,
to creating something truly beautiful to share with others;
I will commit my heart to making the world a little bit better for others;
I will pledge my mind, to thinking up better ways to spent my time and effort.
