Short Paper-- "The Refuge of Art"

Early in Lolita Humbert Humbert informs the reader “between the age limits of nine and fourteen there occur maidens who, to certain bewitched travelers, twice or many times older than they, reveal their true nature which is not human, but nymphic… and these chosen creatures I propose to designate as ‘nymphets’” (Nabokov 16). However, for the “nympholept”, those “lone voyagers” who have this obsessive attraction to nymphs, the idea of this “entranced time” between nine and fourteen supplies a problem (Nabokov 17). As the nymphete ages the nympholept must suffer knowing that he is soon about to lose her on her fifteenth birthday. However, in the last lines of Lolita H.H. offers a potential solution to this problem: “I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita” (Nabokov 309). Within these lines H.H. places special attention on “the refuge of art” as the place where girl-child nymph and her adult-male admirer can escape the problem of nymphic aging and live in immortality. Throughout the course of Lolita the eventual battle between H.H. and Clare Quilty is not only over the nymph Lolita but which nympholept is only a pretender and who will inhabit the “refuge of art”.

As H.H. reveals the qualities of nympolepts early in his narrative he offers the reader a revelation that to be a nympholept “you have to be an artist” (Nabokov 17). With the artistic prerequisite echoing in the minds of the readers H.H. strives to depict himself as an artist in order to establish his identity as a legitimate nymphelept. When reading the class-list H.H. showcases his artistic sensibilities by acknowledging his recognition of the seemingly mundane list as a poem. Also, he frequently writes poetry and references his own artistically trained eye. However, all these artistic displays are overshadowed by the greater text of Lolita supposedly composed by H.H. himself; the reader is led to wonder at the deft composition of the memoir but H.H informs us “you can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style” (Nabokov 9).

H.H.’s nemesis and doppelganger Clare Quilty, another of Lolita’s star nympholepts, also attempts to record and preserve this nymphic time in immortality. When H.H. has finally tracked down Lolita she reveals that she has been at a place owned by Quilty named “Duk Duk Ranch” where “the idea was for all of us to tangle in the nude while an old woman took movie pictures” (Nabokov 276). However, it seems that Lolita refused to partake in the making of these pornographic movies bringing the artistic status of Quilty’s pornos into question. The reader is also only given a brief description of this scene opposed to a prolonged viewing of the film attesting to the fact that it lacked the immortality to even be given a longer duration. The failure of this method to establish an artistic immortality echoes H.H.’s assertion that he is “not concerned with so-called ‘sex’ at all” (Nabokov 134). H.H. continues to essentially juxtapose his status of a nymphelept against Quilty’s by saying how “anybody can imagine those elements of animality. A greater endeavor lures me on: to fix once for all the perilous magic of nymphets” (Nabokov 134). Through this depiction of what a “true” nymphelept must have he confidently proves himself a true connoisseur of nymphs while demoting Quilty to the status of a mere perverted pedophile.

Despite the success of Quilty in stealing away Lolita and leading him on a chase across the American landscape H.H. can be viewed as the novel’s the eventual winner. This is accounted for not in H.H.’s murder of Quilty but that in the end, the glorious “refuge of art”, the ultimate prize offered in the novel, is awarded to H.H. because he has won over the sympathies of the reader. H.H. resounds this when he states “do not pity C.Q. One had to choose between him and H.H., and one wanted H.H. to exist at least a couple of months longer, so as to have him make you live in the minds of greater generations” (Nabokov 309). In this metafictional appeal to the reader, his judge and jury, H.H. reveals that the immortality he speaks of is not found in the physical text itself but in the mind of the reader—the true “refuge of art”.

Beginning Pale Fire-- An Account of a somewhat Resistant Reader

After reading Lolita I must confess that I don't trust Nabokov. I know that with various words, phrases, structures, and such he is striking some unconscious chord in my skull and leading me around exactly where he wants me, like a bee on a string, or perhaps a butterfly... As I read the "Foreward" to Pale Fire I was confronted by a dilemma concerning one of the most fundamental issues that could possible be presented. How am I supposed to read this damn thing? On page 28 of the "Foreward" Charles Kinbote (undoubtedly one of Nabokov's PAWNS in leading me astray) confronts me with the way to read Pale Fire. "Although those notes, in conformity with custom, come after the poem, the reader is advised to consult them first and then study the poem with their help, rereading them of course as he goes through its text, and perhaps, after having done with the poem, consulting them a third time so as to complete the picture."

This concept of Nabokov composing his own notes is very, very scary. By composing the notes I feel like I will soon be stuck in a world of vertigo. I am entering a world where it is not the case of "the blind leading the blind" but a guide with 20/20 omniscient vision coupled with devious intent to mislead me to the heart of confusion and vertigo to guide me, the blind. What if God was a trickster? I can only imagine what it would have been like if Nabokov was actually Anthony Appell in Lolita composing all the annotations for that work. This structure makes me feel vulnerable. I have to rely on Nabokov for guidance through his own work because in the notes is where the story lies. I think that this structure must have put Nabokov over the edge with excitement at seeing the possibilities; the twists, the turns, the games to be played... However, for these same reasons that the structure makes me feel vulnerable it makes me feel empowered. I am supposed to be doing the things that Nabokov wants me to do. He is leaving it up to me to be his ideal reader-- his worthy opponent.

The more I read and reread and reread and reread Nabokov the more I become a resistant reader to his words, "truths", and suggestions. I realize that his writings are a game between him and the reader. An intimate game which, despite my attentiveness, he will always win. Each time he tells me something I cringe and wait for the page to come when he confronts what I believed and makes me feel the part of the fool. Nabokov, in his infinitely puzzlemaster self, isn't only constructing the voracious, attentive reader, he is also crafting the resistant reader-- an opponent whose toying with, leading on, and eventual defeat is a game, infinitely pleasurable even from the grave.