I am Brother Dongle, and I will be running Jason’s site for a while. He is currently resting in a quiet cell at our monastery, while being treated for a minor case of demoniac possession, acquired over Christmas due to too much drink and conversation with lewd people on Xanga.

Here at the monastery we lead very simple and healthy lives, touching no alcohol, eating plain but nourishing food, and whipping ourselves daily to drive out evil. I have urged Jason to try this pure and uplifting lifestyle, and he says that he will some day, but right now he has enough pain to cope with due to the head-twisting phenomena, and with people constantly praying over him and squirting Holy Water up his ass.

But let us turn from this distressing news and discuss theology for a while.

The Abbot of our little monastery is a kind man, but he is firm in his opposition to luxury, and sometimes we monks think he is a little too strict. Tell me your opinion: if a brother’s testicles should itch, is it reasonable that he should scratch, or is this a frivolous luxury?

Censorship. Does it achieve anything?

Is it a valid means of somehow making the world a better place for us to live in?

Or is it merely a variation on a pleasure?

A pleasure so often enjoyed by those strange people who always know better than everyone else how life should be lived?

And – alas – so often holding the reins of power!

That is – the great and subtle pleasure of telling others what to do?

In “Lolita,” by Vladimir Nabokov, the action commences in 1947 and ends in 1952.

It was completed in 1954, and refused by 4 publishers. Finally it was published in 1955, in Paris, selling a moderate 5,000 copies. It might have gone unnoticed by the general public, had not the British author Graham Greene, in an interview with the London Times, declared it one of the finest books of the year. In this same year it was banned in the UK, and in the following year banned in France. In 1958 it was published for the first time in the USA, and became the first book since “Gone With The Wind” to sell 100,000 copies within the first three weeks of publication. The ban on its distribution was lifted in the France in 1958, and in the UK in 1959.

It was filmed in 1962 (directed by Stanley Kubrick) and in 1997 (directed by Adrian Lyne.) and has been continuously in circulation in the half-century since its completion.

It is now considered by critics to be one of the masterpieces of the twentieth century. It is usually described as a tragicomedy, but personally I find it more tragic than comic.

In the field of erotic literature, this novel has probably touched the awareness of the public more than any other, to such an extent that the once innocuous name of Lolita has become another name for youthful feminine charm and sexuality, to put it mildly.

Those are the historical facts, but what of the novel’s merits? What is most definitely is not is pornographic: it doesn’t contain a word of even mildly bad language, nor is it a trashy series of sex scenes featuring a girl of that name. In fact – surprise, surprise if you’ve never read it – Lolita doesn’t even contain a girl called Lolita.

Writing in the first person, Nabokov does not directly tell the story of his famous heroine, but that of Humbert Humbert, a man obsessed with the memory of his dead childhood girlfriend, Annabel, to such an extent that his life is dominated by her loss. As his teens pass, and then his twenties, he fails to mature beyond his loss. When he meets a girl of twelve, Dolores Haze, who resembles his lost love, he attempts to posses her, body and soul, and in his obsessed mind he re-names her “Lolita.” The final result is that both he and Dolores are destroyed, along with several other characters.

Is it a sad story of an unfortunately obsessed man, who should perhaps be pitied as much as condemned? No, for there is more to it than that. Is it a simple story? No, for Nabokov is not a simple writer, telling a plain story of black versus white. If he were, then Dolores would be a naïve and innocent girl, and Humbert an absolute villain.

But Nabokov is not a limited moraliser, seeking to wag a solemn preacher’s finger at a wrong-doer scheming to have his evil way in a world of innocence. Instead he uses the novel to examine the complexities of both love and lust, for Humbert finds that his hidden, furtive desire has met its mate, as he discovers that Dolores has an open, natural tendency to depravity to match his. Moreover, most of the characters that the two are in contact with are flawed, and some are so self-deceiving and tacky that the reader may perhaps be drawn into preferring Humbert’s admitted lechery.

This means that the reader, instead of being able to deal easily with absolutes in a simple situation of right and wrong, is made to journey in an intriguing world of comparisons, corresponding to real life rather than an idealised morality.

Whereas Dolores’s nature is a natural mixture of easily given love and defensive cynicism – she rapidly falls in love with the handsome, exotic Frenchman – Humbert is cowardly, conceited and stupid, and has a talent for bungling everything he attempts, from emotional relationships to violent crime, a failing that he does not notice.

Failing also to see that Dolores is attempting to seduce him, he seeks to trick here into a physical intimacy that she would have awarded to him willingly. As his stupidity becomes more apparent, so does his indifference to the well being of others, for he accepts an offer of marriage from a woman he detests in order to gain control of Dolores, and later contemplates murdering her.

But all his desperate, bungling manoeuvres fail, until to his surprise – Dolores casually offers herself to him, after revealing that she has already had a lover.

Technically this is the climax of the novel, and here Nabokov ends the first of the two books into which it is divided. Some critics say that the latter half is too long, and I agree with them, remarking however that it may merely seem to long, due to being the record of a highly unpleasant relationship.

At about this time, the death of her mother gives Humbert total control of Dolores. He has achieved his great ambition, but he proves utterly incapable of living with his success. Dolores, sullen at the wandering life that they adopt, but entirely dependent on Humbert, strives not to regain her freedom, but for the two to lead some kind of stable life. But Humbert, living in a world of his own, composed of ecstasy and fear – he has gained Dolores, but is terrified of discovery –  fails to listen to her, or realise that the actuality that he has gained is living Dolores, not imaginary Lolita.

Trapped in his conceited self-image – he is a pedantic scholar, who has produced no work of his own, but imagines himself a sophisticated artist –  he fails to communicate with Dolores, or lower himself from his pretensions to her simpler, healthier attitude to life – “speak English!” as she says at one point – and he destroys what remains of her love for him.

As Dolores grows older she is able to gain more control over her life, and she tortures him as he has tortured her, and eventually escapes him. After several years of agonised search Humbert finds her again. Dolores, prematurely aged by hardship, is no longer the cute nymphet that he lusted for, but Humbert still loves her. He has finally achieved a maturity of sorts. He gives her a needed gift of cash, and the two part forever. Later both are destroyed by exterior forces.

However, Nabokov is not such a sentimentalist as to make Humbert’s redemption complete, and it is by a lunatic act, separate from involvement with Dolores, that he causes his own end.

****

You’ll note perhaps that I’ve expended a good few words on the first half of the novel, and not so many on the second. That is because following the sequence of the first half determines the characters of the two and the nature of their relationship, which is the core of the novel.

Misselaneous.

Someone who has read “Lolita” may complain that I’ve missed out the massive involvement of the villain Quilty, to which I’ll reply in advance that Quilty is merely a device, exterior to the relationship between the two, who performs two functions: he acts as an exterior force, thwarting Humbert by rescuing Dolores, and he betrays Dolores in a worse fashion than Humbert, thus indicating that Humbert is not the worst of villains.

Fruit is an often used motif in “Lolita,” usually associated with Dolores’s healthy, animal high spirits. Whilst Humbert destroys her spirit, he is very careful to look after her health, sometimes bringing home her favourite bananas. At the end of the novel, this oral motif is replaced by the cigarette that a soon to die Dolores smokes. As Nabokov is too subtle a writer to do such a thing by accident, the implication may be that the two, who could not live together, cannot live apart, or that Dolores has fled from a bad situation to a worse.

As “Lolita” is told entirely in the first person, supposedly by Humbert writing an account of their affair, a question often raised when analysing the novel is whether or not we can trust his account of Dolores’s behaviour, for in his conceit and delusion Humbert interprets many of her actions according to his own fantasy. My answer is that we can, for in these situations Nabokov usually has Humbert record his thoughts in such a way that the reader can see through to the truth.

Nabokov never claimed that he intended to teach any moral lesson in “Lolita,” but merely get an idea out of his system, as writers sometimes do. Considering the disaster caused by Humbert’s sexual preference, Nabokov certainly did not intend to lend approval to it. If however there is a point driven home by this story, or an attitude of Nabokov’s revealed, it is that the sexual side of such an illicit affair is perhaps ultimately the least important part, even as it is in a legal marriage, and that the respect – or lack of it – for the happiness of another person is the ruling factor.

The tragedy is not that sexless innocence is destroyed by Humbert (Dolores is neither sexless nor innocent) but that the natural sexuality of innocence is mauled by his selfish sexuality. Ultimately, his lasting crime is not his sexual predation (Dolores is equally predatory of Humbert) but his inability to love that which he lusts after. Although (early in the novel) Humbert claims justification for his desires by referring (correctly) to historical lovers, he himself is not a lover, but a gross sensualist.

The rear cover of the copy from which I have just refreshed my memory claims of “Lolita”: “Most of all, it is a meditation on love – love as outrage and hallucination, madness and transformation.” To this I’d agree, adding that of everything I’ve ever read, it is the most cunning blend of the entrancing and the vile.

Originally, all I  wanted to do was write a novel – Wake of the Raven – based on an incident that had intrigued me. But I chose to set it in 1951, not noticing at first that I’d neatly divided into two a century that has seen more changes than any that went before.

1947 – the Second World War ended, and the Cold War began. Now, since Hiroshima, all the world lived under the shadow of nuclear attack. A gloomy blanket, beneath which Capitalism and Communism growled at each other, terrified to enter into direct conflict, but instead moving the lesser nations like pawns to effect a final checkmate.

But the world’s peoples were not so dismayed as to forget to pursue their lives, and sought, despite this new confusion, to grasp their share of life.

The world recovered, cleaned up the debris, and looked at itself as never before. Perhaps not liking what it saw, it began to cry out for change

And in flooded the writers, eager to criticise the ills they saw, eager to push back the dark curtains of need and ignorance – and of course, eager sometimes to do nothing more pretentious than have a little fun and make a few bucks.

What area did they focus their skills on the most? On the relationship between individuals of course, and between individual and the worlds that surround them. And how else, for what is there that exists for humans that does not fall into one of these baskets.

Which writers? Now that the twentieth century is well behind us, who shall we look to, to say “his or her voice spoke, and was heard widely”?

Asimov, the father of the robot? D H Lawrence, whose lovers – now considered tame – scandalised a court into action in 1960? MacDonald Fraser, the Rabelaisian re-writer of history? Miller perhaps, of Cancer and Capricorn fame? Sartre, the gloomy existentialist? Tolkien, historian of a world that never existed? Zelazny, juggler of flawed immortals?

Where shall I start? As ’51 was the first year of this half-century, let me bracket it with a novel commencing in ’47, and ending in ’52 >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov, published 1955

Which I will attempt a commentary on, tomorrow

…. assuming of course that I live that long, which none of us can count on

…….. that is to say, I can’t count on it for me, and you can’t count on it for you

………… although for all I know, some of you may be hoping it for me

……………. or do you think I may be hoping it for you? Well, aren’t you the optimist!

Must all things wait till Garthoon decides to dance?

I saw him first, heavy and proud, his finger raised to forbid

I did not fear him then, nor now, but rather him detested

Heavy and lumbering, he was given the keys

To vast halls, and chambers echoing

Well strewn with subtle toys, and games

Of which he would be steward

And sternly shout, to order all 

Full deep his voice, but senseless, empty

Many the troops placed at his hest, and much of iron-mouthed cannon

With which he slaughtered an army of mice

And we would dance, but here he comes

Dull eyed, he ponders the proposal, fingering the keys 

And would have a committee, to turn his back on

And I sigh for the leaping springtime fields

Where ne’er I saw his clumsy tread

Must all things wait till Garthoon decides to dance?

I have a theory, that the purpose of much of modern education is to raise us to a more exaulted level of stupidity.

To cram us with an ever increasing load of irrelevant information

To totally discourage us from knowing the inner self

And draw us into the outer world of dreary toil

Ignoring the simple joy of just being alive

In order that empowered assholes may use us for their endless games

An Excerpt from my novel, “Wake of the Raven,” soon to be published

The scene is London, England, in February of 1951, six years after the end of World War II. Much of the city is still in ruins from the bombing, and the economy is in a bad condition. Ralph Sinclair is in his mid-twenties, and is an infanty captain on secondment to the British Secret Service

When he had driven around to pick Catherine up earlier this evening, her father had tackled him on the subject, and he had defended his opinions. To his astonishment, Catherine had taken her father’s side, and the whole unpleasant scene had become so heated that he had left in a huff, saving his dignity as he left by telling her, stiffly, that it would be better if he came back when she was more reasonable.  As he drove away he had felt in no mood to return to his parents home, for that would cause questions, and so he had driven for a while, fuming, then stopped at this unknown pub.

A fine thing to happen, he thought, and their wedding scheduled for this July too. Was he to marry her or her father? He would not tolerate this kind of thing when they were married. He had a career in front of him, and already he was becoming recognised by people higher up the ladder than that fossil Haig. Hadn’t McIntyre himself listened to him most attentively?

It would have surprised Sinclair deeply, had he been able to listen to the conversation that had taken place following his departure.

“Too clever sometimes, too clever by half,” had been her father’s brief judgement, before he withdrew behind his newspaper. Catherine had not answered him, for she thought it wrong to criticise her fiancée in his absence, yet she was inclined to agree. Ralph offended people needlessly, and increasingly she was forced to bend her own thoughts to accommodate his crassness. But that was men, and as her mother later said, he was so like her father, and she would have to learn to put up with it, and if only she had held her tongue, then there would have been none of this upset. Catherine had made no reply to this advice, but her lips grew thin and tight.

At the pub, Sinclair had got into conversation with a stranger, a cheerful type, who had an easy manner of speaking, and had made some genial comment on the weather. This was unusual for Sinclair, for he was a man who moved within a narrow circle of friends, confining himself to the right kind of people; by that he meant those who he knew to think as he did, which was the right way to think. But he had a grievance within him, sour and burning, and it struggled to be out. The world had not on this occasion treated him justly, and he needed to explain this to someone, and the man had an open, attentive manner. But it turned out that his new friend was not really the kind of person that he could discuss Catherine with: he was amiable and sympathetic, and listened well, but he did not grasp the seriousness of the offence to Sinclair’s dignity. Instead he laughed mildly, and made a vulgar comment on women in general, so that Sinclair talked instead of the source of their quarrel; the ludicrous, outdated institution of the royal family. At first he spoke moderately, then a spurt of deep indignation shot forth.

“Why he should defend people who’ve done nothing for him, nothing at all, God only knows. Damned useless, no use at all. And her father can’t slee it. ” Ralph Sinclair had little head for drink, for he had this virtue, that he was an man of clean personal habits, and despised drunks. With so little practice in tipping his elbow, his head tipped instead, rapidly.

“Hey mate, you leave it alone with the King. He did plenty for us in the war, more than you did.” It was a man standing at the bar beyond Sinclair’s new friend who had spoken, a middle aged, thick set man, balding and grey, yet with a pair of shaggy black eyebrows that caught Sinclair’s attention as they bristled at him, adding force to their owner’s words. For an instant the eyebrows paralysed Sinclair, as the eye of a snake is said to do, then anger surged up in him at this man with his red butcher’s face, and her spoke rapidly.

“What does someone like you know about what the King does, or what I do for that matter?”

“Ee did ‘is best for us when the bombs were falling, and he got bombed ‘imself,” came the loud answer, the speaker reddening and swelling visibly. “Ee came around and talked to them as lost their ‘omes, that’s what he did. That was worth something, what he did, more than what you’ve got to say.”

  “I’m an officer in his army” began Sinclair, “and I do worthwhile things…”

“You pillock, you weren’t more than a lad when the war was on,” bawled the eyebrows, stepping forwards menacingly.

“Hey hey hey, that’s enough,” the landlord joined in. “Don’t start Eric, or you’re out of here again. I think you’d better finish your drink and leave Sir,” he continued, turning his attention to Sinclair.

Sinclair was fuming within, but he saw no other course. This place had suddenly turned sour, and he had not wanted to be here in any case. He downed the last of the whisky wordlessly and turned to the door with a brief nod at his late companion, who nodded affably back, being an easygoing type.

“That’s right, be on yer way. Don’t need your type in here.”

Sinclair spun on his heel; did the man think he was speaking to a dog, with his face sneering and triumphant? “My type. What do you think your type is, but nothing.” He turned again and thrust his way through the door, seething with contempt, hearing a chorus of indignant voices raised behind him. Best not to waste any more words on that kind of person, what did they know but their own back street ignorance. He strode out for his car, but behind him the door burst open and Eric charged out.

“Hey you, you little twat, I haven’t done with you yet.” Sinclair felt alarm penetrating the heat of his fury. The man was hefty, and an obvious brawler, and his hands were raised. Be calm and take command, his reason told him, and he stepped forward a pace and spoke with authority.

“Any more, and I’ll get a constable and have you taken in charge,” he declared, and was instantly knocked his length onto the pavement; the man has struck him a single swinging blow to the jaw.

“Get yer constable,” jeered Eric, turning away.

“Not in here, no more tonight Eric,” Sinclair heard the landlord’s voice through a haze, saw his upraised hand at the door, denying Eric entry. He sat up; there was blood in his mouth, and he felt the coldness of the pavement wet beneath his palms. Eric was lumbering away down the street towards the next pub, not troubling himself to look back, talking to the night as he went. “Little twat,” drifted back to Sinclair’s ears, then someone was steadying him as he climbed to his feet.

“You alright sir?” It was the landlord.

“Yes.” Sinclair felt far from all right, but he could stand.

“Best be on your way sir. Very unfortunate, but nothing to be done. Nobody here’ll want to know anything. Sure you’re all right?”

“Yes.” Sinclair turned and walked unsteadily to his car, groping in his pocket for a handkerchief. The landlord watched him go. Silly bugger, he thought. Can’t talk that way around here, there’s too many bombs fell. Eric’s going to end up in trouble before he’s done, but its nothing to do with me, as long as he doesn’t come back here tonight. Bad temper our Eric, but he’s a regular, and this bloke isn’t, and he turned back in at his door, shooing the little crowd of spectators before him.

An excerpt from my novel, “Wake of the Raven,” hopefully to be published in January, 2007

It was not often that he thought of Jennifer, for she had become the least of his worries. Sometimes she seemed to him as unreal as a character in a fairy story set on a distant planet, but at other times she loomed suddenly to the foreground of his mind, angering him in the way that a half-wanted piece of lost property angers, being neither capable of use nor possible to be forgotten, and he found himself cursing her as though this imprisonment was her fault, as though her betrayal had summoned him across the water to fall into this sandy trap.

Occasionally he speculated on Julia, if that was her name, and felt pity for the drowned woman. She must have had her dreams, her secrets, but they were gone, sunken with her at the bottom of this bay, and the subject of his brief flirtation was now of interest only to fish. Yet though she was dead, and when he thought of it, by now well rotten, and his legal wife lived, yet if his harassed thoughts wandered briefly into the erotic, it was Julia who he caressed in his inner vision. She was one of those women who live eternally in the memory of a man, because they do not exist as a person, but as an event; a moment when the place was right, and the mind receptive. Then, though not the greatest of beauties, the woman who speaks the right word, who casts a passing smile in the right manner, she is immortalised, and though perhaps never seen again she enters the ranks of the lost gods.

 And with the coming of each new day he would throw the sand-mingled ashes into the rising or receding waves, whilst….

I walked past a rack of magazines yesterday and saw an interesting headline – was it MacLeans Magazine? – blasting out its wisdom as though the world was new-invented. As closely as I can remember >>>>>>>>>>>>

“The Internet,“ it said, “a disappointment! Just exaggeration, falsification and perverts.”

Wow, I thought, that’s great! Just like real life!