Some thoughts on Lolita (or, Just What Was Nabokov Actually Doing, Anyway?)
I'm trying to think of another novel that I've read where the main character is also the principle villain of the story, but none come to mind. While this story is couched in the framing device of it being H.H.'s retelling (so he isn't supposed to be the villain), obviously his thoughts and actions are vile enough to apply that label.
Anyway, the fact that the story starts out with H.H. trying to rationalize the evil that will come later is already a giant red flag. I've heard that people consider this book the pinnacle of the unreliable narrator, and I don't see it. Any story written from the first person is leveraging an unreliable narrator, and the fact that H.H. is aware of the criminality and immorality of his escapades shows that he at least isn't trying to sugar-coat the actual things he's doing and thinking. His attempts to justify this conduct is understandable from this vantage, as he is merely trying to explain how what happened ended up happening. Less unreliable, and more sleazy or duplicitous. He's trying to convince us of something, not trying to obfuscate it.
As an aside, I wish the author's note at the end of the book had come at the beginning, as it was the best part of the entire experience for me. Talking about getting the novel published, his intent, and some of the reactions to it made for more interesting reading to me than the majority of the word labyrinth I'd just completed. Not to mention his distaste regarding writing in English, as if it were a fun little exercise to write this nightmare fuel in (what he considered) a sub-par language.
But this leads into my next question - is the exceedingly-ornate prose of this novel supposed to be H.H. polishing his evil with a veneer of beauty, to lull the reader into a false sense of appreciation? Or is it simply Nabokov doing the same thing? I suppose this doesn't matter that much (since, in a way, it is always Nabokov doing it since he wrote it, and because of the framing device it's always H.H. doing it, too) but I still found myself wondering through the entire novel which it was supposed to be, which definitely affected my enjoyment. Maybe this was a blessing, as this definitely isn't the type of content I want to feel immersed in. The afterword is written a little more plainly, but I haven't read anything else by Nabokov to compare it to.
And that leads me back to that author's note at the end - as Nabokov (sort-of) states, this book is a "record of [his] love affair with the English language". I don't want to spend too much time wondering why THIS story is the form that that recording took, but I did wonder it quite a bit before hitting that little tidbit at the back of the book. I knew he was a Russian who had moved to the US and that this was one of his first works written in English. The fact that all of that culminated in creating this novel will probably always confuse me, as I don't think I can fathom the sheer gravity of artist-ness that would allow those feelings to result in this product.
Anyway, sorry for the rambling. I just needed to put some of these thoughts out into the world and you all are the ones I'm inflicting it upon.