Lolita and The Collector
Over the past two weeks, I’ve re-read both Vladimir Nabokov’s masterpiece Lolita and then the lesser-known, but arguably equally-powerful The Collector by John Fowles. Jen noticed my choice in literature and said something like, “Should I be worried that you’re on this kick of stories about creepy guys obsessed with beautiful young girls?”
Maybe a little.
But the two books, despite being—on the face of it—similar in their content, are really quite different. Lolita is, I think, at its core, really a love story. Humbert Humbert adores his Dolores Haze, and even though he corrupts her vilely, he has only the most heartfelt feelings for her and ultimately—as we see in the scene later in the book when he comes to her tumbledown shack in the country and finds her no longer a nymphet, but a tired-looking pregnant young woman but still says he would take her away with him and care for her unfailingly should she only utter the word—demonstrates that, sick as he is, his love is pure.
The Collector, though, is, I think, a story mainly about the banality of evil. Fred the butterfly collector only wants to possess his Miranda and the fact that he ultimately lets he die rather than be discovered shows that whatever feelings he had for the girl had far less—if anything—to do with her needs than his own.
So, in some way, maybe I was only reading one book about a creepy guy’s obsession, although it certainly was rather strange at times to be a gray-haired middle-aged dude sitting in a restaurant or coffee shop surrounded by all these attractive young girls (and boys for that matter) some thirty years his junior and not being able to help noticing that the way these narrators (especially Humbert) were referring to the objects of their devotion in terms that, had I been drinking booze instead of coffee, I could have imagined myself using to describe what I was seeing.
Maybe a little.
But the two books, despite being—on the face of it—similar in their content, are really quite different. Lolita is, I think, at its core, really a love story. Humbert Humbert adores his Dolores Haze, and even though he corrupts her vilely, he has only the most heartfelt feelings for her and ultimately—as we see in the scene later in the book when he comes to her tumbledown shack in the country and finds her no longer a nymphet, but a tired-looking pregnant young woman but still says he would take her away with him and care for her unfailingly should she only utter the word—demonstrates that, sick as he is, his love is pure.
The Collector, though, is, I think, a story mainly about the banality of evil. Fred the butterfly collector only wants to possess his Miranda and the fact that he ultimately lets he die rather than be discovered shows that whatever feelings he had for the girl had far less—if anything—to do with her needs than his own.
So, in some way, maybe I was only reading one book about a creepy guy’s obsession, although it certainly was rather strange at times to be a gray-haired middle-aged dude sitting in a restaurant or coffee shop surrounded by all these attractive young girls (and boys for that matter) some thirty years his junior and not being able to help noticing that the way these narrators (especially Humbert) were referring to the objects of their devotion in terms that, had I been drinking booze instead of coffee, I could have imagined myself using to describe what I was seeing.
posted by Professor Dave at 12:00 PM
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