Vladimir Nabokov
Lolita

Lolita or the Thousand Forms of Love

There was a time when men with great ingenuity, and a quick, witty, and graceful pen, dealt with the great enigmas of the human mind.

“What happens in the minds of gamblers, so different and at the same time similar to each other?” Before Mandrake, Dostoevsky told us about it in a short and concise novel, The Gambler.

And then there was love. That game that a chemist could not understand, but that other men discovered and revealed to their readers.

“What could have happened to a beautiful provincial woman, loved by her old husband and accompanied by numerous lovers, and covered with gifts by both, to decide to commit suicide at twenty-six?” Immersed in the analysis of this human case, Flaubert wrote the story of Emma Bovary. “What happened in the psyche and mind of a young, beautiful woman who threw herself under a train?” Tolstoy, writing Anna Karenina, tried to give an answer.

In a dialogue with the experimental methods of the new human sciences, in an ambiguous relationship with it, of exchange, but also, at times, of mockery, these masters of the nineteenth century engaged.

In the twentieth century, in a dialogue with psychology, but with marked mockery towards it, these “confessions of a white widower,” that is Lolita, found their place.

Forget about the excellent film adaptations it has inspired, because this novel surpasses, overwhelms, and transcends them, while the films only offer a glimpse, albeit pleasant, of the depth of Vladimir Nabokov's novel.

Do we perhaps think that Eco (or Bompiani) exaggerated by claiming that those who read live many lives and that there's something in life that paper will never give?

After reading these confessions, it will be difficult to be so sure.

Humbert Humbert, the narrator and protagonist of this story, faces historically and socially unacceptable situations and emotions.

His confession, written in autobiographical form and chronological order, is an attempt to trace back to the roots and describe the trunk, branches, and leaves of his all-encompassing love for the twelve-year-old named Lolita:

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.

Lo-li-ta: the tip of the tongue takes a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Li. Ta. She was Lo,

plain Lo in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on

the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

H. H. confesses every detail of his diabolical plan, to win over Lolita, the daughter of his landlady, observing and discovering every hidden cause of his crazy project and his mad love. Without censorship, we will see how the obsession for Lolita overtakes H.H. over the years: every fiber of his being, every word, comma, and period of his writing are filled with passion.

None of the vile acts to which H. H. is driven are omitted; an attempt is made to give a convincing and exhaustive explanation for everything.

And when the reader is finally immersed up to the neck in the book, a question might surprise them: is the person that the pseudonym H. H. hides really like this, or is the author, hiding behind this pseudonym, playing with me?