This proved to be the last of twenty entries or so. It will be seem from them that for all the chronicler’s inventiveness, the days remained daily the same. For almost three weeks I had been interrupted in all my pathetic machinations. Why at the time it never occurred to me to go to the lake by myself, I don’t know. The agent of these interruptions was usually the Haze woman, who, as the reader will mark, was more afraid of Lo's deriving some pleasure from me than of Lo growing up civilized. Despite her bacon-stealing and adolescent whining, Lo was far more interesting than her stale mother. Lo was an original.
We did go to the lake, finally. It would have been logical on the part of Aubrey McFate (as I would like to dub that devil of mine) to arrange a small treat for me on the promised beach, in the presumed forest. Actually, the promise Mrs. Haze had made was a fraudulent one: she had not told me that Mary Rose Hamilton was to come too, and that Mrs. Haze and her handsome lodger would converse sedately in the seminude, far from prying eyes.
Incidentally, eyes did pry and tongues did wag. How queer life is! We hasten to alienate the very fates we intended to woo. Before my actual arrival, my landlady had planned to have an old spinster, a Miss Phalen, whose mother had been cook in Mrs. Haze's family, come to stay in the house with Lolita and me, while Mrs. Haze, a career girl at heart, sought some suitable job in the nearest city. Mrs. Haze had seen the whole situation very clearly: the bespectacled, round-backed Herr Humbert coming with his Central-European trunks to gather dust in his corner behind a heap of old books; the unloved ugly little daughter firmly supervised by Miss Phalen who had already once had Lo under her buzzard wing (Lo recalled that 1944 summer with an indignant shudder); and Mrs. Haze herself engaged as a receptionist in a great elegant city. But a not too complicated event interfered with that program. Miss Phalen broke her hip in Savannah, Ga., on the very day I arrived in Ramsdale, and Haze found herself unrequitedly smitten, her tenant too polite or meek to make his lack of intentions known.
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One man's chapter-by-chapter quest to remove the pedophilia from Nabokov's Lolita.
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Welcome. Perhaps you’re here because you and I share a love for the wit and poetry found in Nabokov’s classic, Lolita. For a book fan, Lolita is a trove of voice, alliteration, character, plot, assonance, and mood. It’s chock-full of references and culture. But—and for the morally discriminating reader, there’s always that but—it’s the account of a child rapist, told with fluctuating, insufficient remorse. The narrator’s moral depravity left this reader unsatisfied and I doubt I am alone.
My solution: put on my editor hat go to work, creating an alternate edition of Nabokov’s masterwork, Lolita, Scrubbed. In this new (and I hope, improved) version, I seek to retain the lovable poetry of the book’s original text while excising the book’s amoral core. And while I make no claims to be a writer of Nabokov’s caliber, I plan to “re-see” troubling scenes as the author would, were he convinced of the novel’s problematic nature. I also plan, in an effort to make the book more “of our times,” to apply light cuts here and there in areas where I feel the language goes a little overboard.
I ask fans of the original text to not confuse my re-seeing as “censorship.” I do not wish to see Nabokov’s book banned or burned. I only wish to humbly present a new version, to be enjoyed and evaluated on its own merit. And lest you think I’m a total buzz-kill, there’s still a juicy murder plot at the heart of the story. Enjoy!
- Gerard Kibbey, June 2009
Gerard Kibbey
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