Lolita Recap

I chose the following caption to recap.  

This then is my story. I have reread it. It has bits of marrow

sticking to it, and blood, and beautiful bright-green flies. At

this or that twist of it I feel my slippery self eluding me, gliding

into deeper and darker waters than I care to probe. I have

camouflaged what I could so as not to hurt people. And I

have toyed with many pseudonyms for myself before I hit on

a particularly apt one. There are in my notes "Otto Otto" and

"Mesmer Mesmer" and "Lambert Lambert," but for some

reason I think my choice expresses the nastiness best.

When I started, fifty-six days ago, to write Lolita, first in the

psychopathic ward for observation, and then in this wellheated,

albeit tombal, seclusion, I thought I would use these

notes in toto at my trial, to save not my head, of course, but

my soul. In mind-composition, however, I realized that I could

not parade living Lolita.

Even through all the madness, the author still has the mind not to not publish his work till after both he and Dolly had both died.  His hurt both internally and externally ( from imprisonment to death ) is weighed on how his desires were never fulfilled, however I feel that his distain for himself and her is in the same comparison as someone dying from cancer. 

You don’t hate the cancer, but you hate the spread.  The individual desires don’t measure in his mind, but how the his entire being aches for the passion of the “whole”  When we look at what people feel sorry about or what their needs are, rarely do we have a small list with bulleted points.  More or less we have a lacking sense of ourselves, a yearning beyond our sense of comprehension.  Lust tends to do that, but its because our desires are not reciprocated.    Now if Dolly had never lead our author on, those yearnings would never have been stoked in the fire of lust.  Lust only holds to our base presumptions of what could happen, but never will.  Secretly everyone who lusts ( or loves unconditionally without equal reciprocation ) knows they will never have what they desire, but the temptation to “maybe” get it if you try hard enough outweighs the logical reasoning.

I find the lines interesting where he states that he did not write these memoirs to explain to others why this happened or why he did what he did, but to confess these desires to his inner soul who drove the madness in hope of self forgiveness.  Although not completely in line with the nature of Lolita’s age, most older men tend to desire younger women ( lets say 18-26 ) not necessarily because of the woman’s age or beauty.  But, just as a midlife crisis, its makes them feel young again.   Having someone younger desire you is akin to an expert praising your work.  It gives purpose to what you do and who you are at the primal level of satisfaction.