Lolita Discovery! Kenneth "Knight"

Finding a worthy discovery wasn't very hard. Discoveries, known to other readers (or even Nabokov himself!) occur throughout the book in such quantities that it would be almost impossible not to discover something! As I am very intrigued by the chess game nature of Lolita I decided to take a look at one of the coincidentally named minor characters-- Kenneth Knight.

To begin the search for discovery I investigated the infamous class list. Low and behold, Kenneth Knight appears as such in the list...

Hamilton, Mary Rose
Haze, Dolores
Honeck, Rosaline
Knight, Kenneth


"Aha!" (the reaction that the observant reader knowledgeable of chess moves should have) For Knight to "take" Dolores/ Lolita/ the Queen as H.H. refers to her later in the book, he must move up two words and over one-- the formation in which the Knight moves. It seems that Nabokov, an avid chess player, very possibly would intentionally put this small, yet notable, nugget for the reader to discover inside his intricately laced text.


Exploring Kenneth Knight further I found an interesting link for the whole class list. This author shed some interesting light on possible who Kenneth Knight could depict. "Both the first and the last names once again (cf. Glave, Mabel) evoke medieval associations: Kenneth Mac Alpin (ninth century) was the first king of the Picts and Scots, who distinguished himself in his military exploits against the Vikings and the English. Kenneth is mentioned in "Berchan's prophecy," which alleged that he "by force of his strength [...] would reign in the east after using ther strength of spears and of swords." In the novel, the medieval Kenneth's prowess and military exploits are travestied in his namesake's "exhibit[ing] himself wherever and whenever he had a chance (137) and in his 'propell[ing] the Ramsdale Journal with a very precise thud on the porch" (54). In addition, the surname of course alludes to nabokov's first English novel, "The Real Life of Sebastian Knight".



To follow up I did a quick check on Kenneth Mac Alpin. Interestingly enough, it appears that Kenneth Mac Alpin, according to weakipedia, has been posthumously dubbed as "The Conqueror", although, his status as a real conqueror is in debate. Referring back to the class list interpretation I posted above I was also very intrigued at how the author links the throwing of swords and spears to Kenneth Knight exposing himself and thrusting his masculinity about. For Nabokov, this would seem to be too Freudian I'm also drawn to the whole "King" novelty of this possible interpretation. I guess it could be possible that Nabokov could be critiquing Freud (although it seems Nabokov likes his attacks on Freud to be pretty open) through inserting this somewhat humorous image of a child exposing the phallus freely at will. Kenneth Knight as a parody of Freud???... possible.

While this understanding of Kenneth Knights name is very interesting it doesn't seem too likely to me that Nabokov intentionally put it into his text for the Kenneth Mac Alpin/ Freud reference. However, pursuing tricks and trails tethered throughout the text is a great way to practice being an observant reader.

Possible Paper Topics

For the short-paper I have two ideas in mind. Each option presents an interesting possibility for discovery and exegesis of Nabokov's work.

Option #1: In "Lolita" Nabokov uses a plethora of literary allusions, many of which are to fairy tales and children's texts. More specifically he makes a couple of references to "Alice and Wonderland" by Lewis Carroll aka. Charles Dodgson. I would be interested in doing some research and composing a short study of how the "Alice in Wonderland" helped influence some aspects of Lolita.


Option #2: For this option I was considering doing a study of the "games" of Nabokov's works. Undeniably the avid chess player/author used chess strategies and moves to influence the ways in which he composed his novels. For this option I would also be interested in pursuing "Game Theory" which, I believe, is concerned with examining texts and such through the lens of games and how life can be understood as game-play. *Note: I am perhaps thinking that this study might be better for the longer term-paper for the end of the class.



I think that both of these options would provide an interesting focus for greater understanding Nabokov's works and making my own discoveries that would help illuminate further reflections on his texts.

Letter to Amanda

Simply put-- Why a pedophile? Why does Vladamir Nabokov, a fantastic author and artist, focus his story on the character of a disgusting, perverse and hated pedophile?

Well, although at first I too was against the despicable H.H. I feel that I am now understanding Nabokov's choice a little better (if only slightly). In class we discussed how authors throughout the ages have attempted one-up each other by telling more grotesque stories and creating more despicable characters than the last. This question reminded me of a joke that a friend told me about. Apparently there are a series of jokes referred to as "The Aristocrats" in which the goal of the comedian is to tell the most horrific, grotesque, and shocking joke. The comedian who can best shock the listener with the the dirtiest joke is the most successful. So, by crafting a story around a despicable character provides a challenge to the author and the artist through which only the best can "pull-off".

I was considering posting the link for the Bob Saget aristocrat joke (simply because it is Bob Saget) but I felt that It was TOO vulgar to link. If you want, you can look it up on YouTube and watch it to understand just how grotesque it is. It is highly offensive.

Picture Caption

This photograph, of my father, mother, and me, (appearing in that order) was taken on the set of a local production of the Tony award winning "Pump Boys and Dinettes" at the WYO theater in Sheridan, Wyoming. My mother, a former High School Choir teacher (and avid lover of music and performance), appeared in the musical as either Prudie Cupp or Rhetta Cupp, I forget now, one of the two sisters who owned the charming and quaint Double Cupp Cafe in which the musical is set. The musical, which premiered on Broadway at the Princess Theater on February 4, 1982, showcases slices of Americana through country/rock/pop songs and the story of four gas station workers and the two Cupp sisters. Presumably the play is not set in contemporary times according the the $2.50 hamburger and $.50 slice of pie listed on the Double Cupp Diner Menu in the upper left of the photograph. My father (wearing an entertainingly western buckskin jacket and belt buckle with a big horn ram with the words *National Forest*) and I hold two empty white ceramic cups, fooling the viewer of the photograph to thinking we are customers at this diner while my mother presents a pecan pie. I believe this photograph was taken in mid-late October of 2006 as I had recently purchased my green hat and jacket in Bozeman, Montana, the town in which I was attending my freshman year of University. I had traveled back to Sheridan, a modest four hour drive in my Subaru Forester, to watch my mother perform.

Reading Lolita Twice

Twice is nice. Reading "Lolita" for a second time should be, I imagine, a second chance to be a detective-- a detective with the assistance of moderate foresight! Now that I know "who did it" I can search back through the pages, back through the narrative of that despicable Humbert Humbert, and uncover the treasured mentions of his arch-foe, Clare Quilty. Possibly even more important than uncovering the culprit (like the one in the manila slip in a game of clue) it will be fascinating to appreciate the way Nabokov crafts the story and the reader along with it. Noticing the sultry scents that mislead the reader can be appreciated for the irresistible "try", like in a game of chess between reader and author.

Reading the story w/o annotations was quite a test of will power. At times (many, many times) I found what seemed to be a typical sentence, nothing hidden, nothing cryptic, but there would be that damned number on the side denoting some meaning or reference important to the novel. I would notice this and probe the sentence, put each word under a microscope, and realize that I had no idea what was being annotated. Like this I would trudge through the work.

The more I reflect on the phenomena of my being an English major for almost 4 years now and seemingly have learned absolutely nothing that helps me read this infuriating text I realize that this is part of reading "Lolita" and perhaps this is what Nabokov's version of didacticism is-- teasing the reader. Provoking the reader with his twists and turns, flips of the tongue and labyrinthine language he is, in fact, molding what he refers to throughout the book as the "learned reader". For the reader to grasp that he/she is missing a lot, perhaps even the bulk of what is important, teases us enough to read more, read deeper, and examine "Lolita" and other texts, under the astute microscope of a specialized scientist and playful puzzle-master. Twice is nice.


*A lovely labyrinth

Continuation of "The Void" blog post...

In review of my blog post "The Void" I feel that I left some large stones unturned and upon further musings about this topic, discovered my error. I wish to add that I feel what an author like Nabokov, one concerned with all the rays of light illuminating this small slice of existence, would have wanted. Nabokov, as well as Calvino and Kafka, certainly wish that this time of light, the illumination of our position hanging above the abyss, should be spent in time of study, engaging our sight with every detail of every moment-- as is evident in the captions of Nabokov. We should leave no small glance in the trash bin, no "unimportant" detail left considered "unimportant", no large boulder, as well as grain of sand, unturned. One of the ways to pursue this scrutinizing eye is to follow the words of the birds who roam Pala in Auldous Huxley's "Island": "Attention! Attention! Attention!". Only with this attention and awareness that is deeper than a glancing eye can a viewer pursue illuminating this slice of life between darkness and changing our views from those seen by candlelight to those seen under the rays of the sun.



*"Attention" to good writing, notes, and authorial decisions!

The Void

Vladimir Nabokov's autobiography "Speak, Memory" opens up with a memorable quote; "The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness." This quote, with the intense focus on the concepts of an "abyss" (void) and "light", reminds me of the writings of two other authors writing in the 20th century, albeit one is about 20 years previous and the other about 20 years later-- Franz Kafka & Italo Calvino.




In Italo Calvino's work "Invisible Cities" he often flirts with the ideas of places suspended above the nothingness, cities built on nothingness, and cities that define the space they are given, even if it is only points of light in nothingness-- the brief crack of light in the darkness. In this work Calvino imagines every city there could possibly be as he explores the depths of possibilities. However, as the book progresses Khan begins to understand that perhaps Marco Polo hasn't traveled to all these places but he may be explaining the depths, focusing the intricate rays of light of his native Venice.

Franz Kafka's "The Castle" begins with an intense description of place that evokes much of the same imagery of Navokov; "It was late in the evening when K. arrived. The village was deep in snow. The Castle hill was hidden, veiled in mist and darkness, nor was there even a glimmer of light to show that a castle was there. On the wooden bridge leading from the main road to the village, K. stood for a long time gazing into the illusory emptiness above him." An intriguing difference between Nabokov's and Kafka's understanding of the void the void's relation to the subject. Nabokov imagines hanging over the void, suspended, something to beware of falling into. Kafka however envisions the void above the subject as something to get to, something to investigate and attain, as is true of many of Kafka's works perhaps most notable in the short story "Before the Law".




The most notable similarity between the two is Nabokov's and Kafka's supreme interest in investigation. Each author pursues their works with a magnified and careful eye. Kafka's characters Joseph K. ("The Trial") and K. ("The Castle") try to explore their situations from every perspective in order to better their position; Joseph K. pursues discovering the nature of his trial in order to appropriately diagnose the best course of action in his defense. K. pursues every avenue of entering the Castle to attempt to understand the nature of his employment. Nabokov investigates the world through a scientifically trained eye. Each detail is noted and important, even the ones that often seem the least important.

The void needs to be considered an important characteristic of the writing of Nabokov and other writers exploring space in the 20th century. It can symbolize something that many of these authors such as Nabokov and Kafka struggle with-- defining the undefinable, approaching infinity, and exploring the abyss.




*Here is a passage from a story I wrote called "A Grove in the Barren". I feel that this story deals with this concept Nabokov puts forth about "our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness".

It was cold and the snow whipped around my face in tight curls. I had been walking alone in The Barren a long time, as long as I could remember, and never found anything or been found by anything. I used to hold my hand out to feel my way along, to try and strike a solid wall, but always when I outstretched my hand it reached infinitely far, contacted nothing and became lost in the crystalline white void. Some time ago, during my bouts of vertigo, I would drop to my knees and vomit, but even then it looked blank and white and the bloodspots were instantly buried deep in fresh snow...

*Read the rest of the story at http://adambenson.blogspot.com/2009/08/grove-in-barren.html

Butterflies & Nightmares

*I'm taking an actual nightmare/event from my childhood and exploring it with the allowances and liberty of composing it in a more literary style.

Butterflies & Nightmares



When I was young, sometime between 4-6, I had, as my mother recalls, one of the most terrifying nightmares of my life. It was summertime in Sheridan, Wyoming meaning the daytime was most likely hot, sunny and a great day for a young boy to be playing outside. Most likely, I was in fact playing outside-- rambling around my yard, throwing a ball around in the grass, exploring the hidden areas underneath pines and inside of bushes and having the sort of summer day that is only afforded to young boys. At the end of the day I would come inside the brick house, sit at the oak table for dinner, peruse flickering images of baseball on the television, and finally go to sleep.

I woke up with a twinge of unsettling that made me decide to stand by my parents bedside and ruffle their blankets with the palm of my little hand. My mom who (if viewing the bed from the foot) slept on the left, woke up first. She shifted out of the sleep and transformed into a motherly figure full of concern and worry. I told her I had woken up and couldn't go back to bed. She suggested I move out of my room, hot and stuffy with no air conditioning, into our living room and lay out on the grey speckled carpet in my Aladin sleeping bag.

In mere minutes I drifted back into the land of sleep so easily entered by children and I began to dream. I played out in our yard, rambling around the grass and exploring the depths and dens of the pines and bushes. After tiring I quit the foliage caverns and reentered the yard, spacious, green, and cut short with a spring smell. I looked around searching for something to capture my interest. High up in the sky a small speck fluttered. Yellows, blacks, and whites all mixed together in an intricate pattern that was mirrored from one wing across to the other. The butterfly came down, pushing through the air like a swimmer in a calm pool, taking quick, short strokes. I held out my hand and soon the insect had alighted on its rook. I looked it over, admiring the slow expansion and retraction of the patterned wings, each flap pushing small quantities of air across the knuckles of my hand.

After examining the creature for a short while I suddenly became aware of the shadow around my body. I started at this phenomena; I had only stood in shadows when close to trees, buildings, and other tall objects, which, in the middle of my yard, had none close around. I swiveled my head around searching for the cause of the cloud. Above my head, hovering in a yellow, black, and white mass, was a collective flurry of butterflies, swirling around as if angry food in a blender. The butterflies quickly descended and covered my body, crawling around on my arms and neck with prickly steps, clogging the air around my nose and mouth, tangling their insect bodies into my hair, and folding their wings over my eyes, darkening my eyes.

I woke screaming "butterflies! Butterflies!" My mother finally ran out and convinced me that I was, in fact, quite bare of any abhorred insect. She questioned me if I had eaten anything around the household, possibly divulged in the liquids under the sink. I stood too scared to answer in a moment of arrest at the covering of my body in so many butterflies.

Pinky-- A recurring memory from my childhoold

Pinky



I try to rummage through my memories and sort the useful from the useless like the separating of wheat from chaff. Locating the singular memory I consider my first feels impossible in the jumbled chronology of the past. I ruminate and probe the various flashes of recollection that present themselves as my first, most important memory only to return to the thought of my dad’s missing finger. Considering my childhood memories in accordance with my dad’s missing finger raises memories of the flowering of my understanding of humor, frustration and a myriad of humanity. Each sprouting from the space on my dad’s hand where there should be flesh and bone but there is none.

Since I can remember my dad has had five fingers on his right hand and four and a half on his left, the pinky being lopped off at the first joint past the knuckle. This stub became a tool for provoking me endlessly. I would ask him how he had lost his finger and he would tell me the story. I became confused when his stories began to contradict one another; each story being different every time he told me of how his pinky had become to be half intact, half lost. Soon, I could recognize the pattern he crafted his stories around. The story would surround the situation that we both were in and at the end he would abruptly hold up his hand, framing the pinky in my view, and give a signature, quick flash of a smile. This half-finger story became even more interesting when I noticed his insistence on telling a tale to complete strangers: a cashier, a waitress, some students in his Spanish class. Always masterfully twisting the story around the situation but always ending the tale by holding up his hand and giving a quick smile.

Among my friends the telling of these tales became something of a legend. My dad would craft the tales to fit in to our teenage ramblings when he drove us up skiing. He had cut it off on the edge of a snowboard, broke it off by slamming it in a cash register, and it had been sliced off on a guitar string just like a piece of salami. My friends intrigue of this story went so far as for one of my friends to suggest “Adam, it’s your destiny to lose a finger just like your dad and tell stories.” I laughed and brushed off the remark. I stated how absurd that was, how much I liked having ten fingers and how I expected to for a long time to come.
I’ve made inquiries with friends of his, fellow high-school teachers that know him, and even my mom. Somehow they all react with cryptic knowledge. Not revealing any useful information and giving me a sly smile, honoring a tradition they all know; a tradition that precedes my birth.

To this day I still do not know the “real” reason why my dad has nine and a half fingers instead of the standard ten. I do not know if he’s embedded clues or some version of the truth in the stories he has told me. I do not know if I will ever find out. I do not know if I want to ever find out. But I do know that the imprint of these tales sway across my childhood memories like my dad dangling a plastic finger attached to a key chain in front of my eyes.