I detest pedos. The idea makes me sick to my stomach

>I detest pedos. The idea makes me sick to my stomach.
Fuck off normalfag

Attached: 50DF9A4A-7B7E-4B4C-8B6B-07064C18FEF7.jpg (2438x1581, 1.49M)

This is the most retarded of all takes on lolita, and there are a lot of retarded takes.
Source: the fucking afterword

>That's essentially Lolita
Almost, but Nabokov is not interested in reality, he wants you to realise its a novel and laugh how retarded you were falling for all of the tricks. A scholar whose name escapes me said it best: It"s like a puppet show for your kids where the cardboard stage falls exposing you, and the children who were completely immersed in the story suddenly laugh at themselves for being fooled.

meant for

Isn't that literally any fiction book ever written? I mean, who believes those stories are actually real?

not real real you mong, but realistic.

When asked about Lolita, Nabokov quoted a story about a gorilla at a zoo that learned to paint. The first thing it ever drew were the bars of it's cage. Take that as you will for an answer.

Keep in mind, the novel opens by announcing that "You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style." Why is this always? Perhaps because the murderer always seeks to empathize himself. You find yourself swayed by his language, believing in some decency in a man that stole the childhood for a young girl. You trust him in his claim that "Lolita seduced me," and trust that Dolores engaging in sexual experiences when younger rationalizes her ability to engage in a relationship with a man over thrice her age. Such is the power of language and aesthetics: to make the horrid beautiful, to make evil entice our sympathies, and to hide the incestuous manipulations of a child behind a trust in an old European aesthete.

There are lots of realistic (and even better) novels that predate Lolita. Also it came out in like the mid 1950s, where people couldn't even be fooled by such a fiction anymore. I think your scholar is an exaggerating faggot.

the fuck are you talking about nigger, read my post before saying something so unabashedly retarded. Fooling someone doesnt mean that they believe something is real you colossal faggot.

Your scholar is a retard and the thing he said applies to pretty much all fiction. It's not exclusive to Lolita and it's not what makes the book special. All realistic fiction tries to "fool" the readers. That's not a unique feature of Lolita. Try again when you're not an utter niggerfaggot.

My daughter’s playmate said something that shook me to the absolute core.

It was a humid Saturday morning that spurred my wife and I to decide that we’d regularly send our daughter to a daycare. We both thought it’d be better in the long run for our daughter to make more friends and for the both of us to get time to ourselves. Don’t get us wrong—we love our daughter, but raising any kid just gets onto you after a while. Plus, our air conditioning at home was steadily becoming poorer and poorer, and our daughter hated it. So, we devoted our time to scouring for local, safe daycares in the area. There had been a few, rather trivial news reports in the area about some child molester, harasser—whatever which, but none had been followed. Real gory. Still, my wife, Em, wanted us to be extra careful and choose the safest locations within our neighborhood.

Our little girl walked in and wailed in protest at the thought of daycare. My sweet six-year-old, Marianne, had never been much into socialization. She took after me, more into being alone with a book or a series, and not her mother, who liked dinner dates and happy hours. Opposites attract, I suppose. She stuck her tongue out at her mother and I, retreating to her bedroom where she hugged her stuffed elephant for hours until she came back for a snack.

All it took was a few hours of calls, price inquiries, questions about the area, and other parental question things, and Marianne was officially sorted into Periwinkle Field Learning Center’s daycare program. It wasn’t the cheapest, but they had impeccable staff, and a great yard for the children to play. Real great. Em and I decided that I’d bring her there every morning and Em would pick her up around noon. It was a great arrangement, only happened on Saturdays, and was a win for everybody.

Marianne, though initially upset, fell in love with the interior of the place. She loved the yard, and the pale blue walls with purple flowers and blue toy cars painted on top of them. Our spacious home had a sizable interior, but not much of a backyard, which is probably why Marianne loved it so much.

Within two weeks or so, she was already itching with excitement to get there. Fully dressed and holding her Doc McStuffins bag, she’d swat my shoulder until I got up, dressed, and in the car with her. After a few hours of working or cleaning, my wife would pick her up. It was easy, and the three of us all enjoyed it. I, for one, could definitely say that I enjoyed my extra activities. It was a dream.

And then something happened.

Periwinkle Field arranged some kind of “Invite Your Parents” day that happened at noon on a particular Saturday. Joy, Marianne’s teacher, spoke to me when I called inquiring about it. I could barely hear what it was about over Marianne’s excited babbles. Joy calmly and happily explained that every few weeks, the parents would come along to see their child’s progress at daycare, and also participate in team-building activities with the kids and fellow parents. Em couldn’t make it, so to appease Marianne, I agreed instead. Her high-pitched squeals were enough to let my initial refusal melt away.

The day came along, with Em leaving early for a work seminar. It took me just around 45 minutes to dress Marianne. Not only was she fidgety with excitement, she was also refusinf every outfit I put on her. She wanted something perfect. Finally, after a small fuss, we drove there. It was a nice enough day, a bit breezy to balance the sweltering heat. There was a grill ongoing in the yard, and inside, there were a few racks and trays of food and large jugs of iced tea. Real nice. Teachers paced the area to greet the parents, and I smiled as Joy approached me. “Hi, sir,” she said, “well, you’re a bit early, so the activities haven’t properly begun yet, but feel free to grab a bite and say hello to the kids.” She beamed as she walked off into the crowd of people. Hmm. I was beginning to become irked at the lack of activity, but for Marianne, I suppose. I took a bright blue plastic cup and filled it with their iced tea, which was very cold and very sweet.

I was halfway through my second cup when Marianne ran towards me and crashed into my leg, jolting me a bit. The iced tea sloshed dangerously in my cup as I set it down shakily, laughing.

“Well, hello, miss,” I jeered, picking her up. Beside her was a girl around her age, wearing a magenta dress and green shoes. The outfit looked like it barely matched—but I’d seen the shoes before. Maybe Marianne had them in a different color?

I was shaken out of my thought train with Marianne’s voice. “Daddy, daddy,” she cried, “my friend doesn’t have parents. We should adopt her!” I set Marianne down gently and smiled at the girl, who smiled back. Her hair was messy, her barettes all over the place, and it became clear that no one was there, or no one cared enough at home to maintain her. “Hello there,” I began, “what’s your name?” She smiled meekly and replied, “Katie.” I smiled, prodding further, “Katie, sweetie, what do you mean you have no parents?”

She sighed and paused. Then, “I do have parents, but they’re always sleeping. They will only get up sometimes. They are badly hurt,” she said, “and they are always scared. Every few nights—”Before she could continue, Marianne jumped out of my arms and shrieked, “Katie Katie! Tell Daddy about the load!” Katie nodded, but Marianne continued. “Daddy, daddy, it all started when we were playing and...and a construction worker came in and talked to the principal and said”—she then adopted a botched rendition of a deep male voice—“we got a real nice load of cement here ma’am, perfect for the new installation, then—”

Katie cut Marianne off by clearing her throat. Timidly, my daughter let her take on.

“Then, I said to Marianne, the man says that every time. Real nice load.” My heart sped up. Jesus Christ, a man? The man? “Every few nights, my parents will send me to that abandoned warehouse thingy...on the side of the road...and he’ll be there. And—and he’ll do weird stuff, and he’ll stick a—his hotdog in my mouth and weird bitter white juice comes out and he says, ‘that’s a real nice load’. Then after a while, my parents pick me up and he pays them. When I ask them they say that they owe him. But he hits them too. So I walk to school everyday and bike to daycare. Every night they muster up enough strength to bring me to him. Lately, though, he’s been doing it in the noon. Right before daycare ends. Just wears a hood and mask.” Her lips began to wobble. My palms were sweating. Good Lord.

I picked Marianne up. “Katie, I’m gonna talk to your teachers about this, okay?” I could barely contain my worry. “But Marianne and I are going to go home first.” Marianne weakly protested for us to stay, but the look of fear and firmness on my face said enough. In the car, I called Em and asked her to make arrangements to get Marianne out of the daycare program. I felt her labored breathing across the line as I explained what happened, what Katie said. Jesus Christ. We couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk it. I leaned back, sweating and breathing hard. How could this have happened?

The drive home, the hugs with Em, the nights spent with a scared Marianne between us, the months that followed...only one thought lingered in my mind.

I hope Katie didn’t recognize my voice.

>Nabokov is not interested in reality,
>It's like a puppet show for your kids where the cardboard stage falls exposing you, and the children who were completely immersed in the story suddenly laugh at themselves for being fooled.

>All realistic fiction tries to "fool" the readers

thats what lolita is a play on you nigger, you seem to forget the end of his comment, the laughing at being fooled part. Regular novels dont step out of their constructed reality, while the whole point of lolita is exactly to show you by the end that the whole book was a construct of nabokov.

read the book instead of being this much of a retard.

how is that reality kek, he doesnt even use the word without commas in all of his work

I've actually read it. It was alright. I've read better novels. The Borges quote makes up for a more interesting novel than Lolita ended up being. For me Lolita is more than this quirky meta game that you're proposing.

read it again, reading lolita once is like reading the first half of it, what i say will make much more sense

cont.?

How is it not reality? He's playing with the reader using fiction, or "exposing him", as you said. He's dealing with reality and quite concerned about it if your interpretation is true.

>For me Lolita is more than this quirky meta game that you're proposing
user the whole oeuvre of Nabokov is this quirky meta game

i phrased it badly, his ars poetica is that fiction is for enchantment and should be as far away from our reality as possible. Ada, Lolita and Pale Fire are all novels that depict someone who tries to elevate his fiction to "reality", which he views as a cardinal sin.

I don't think the Borges quote was referring to "our reality" but the reality of the story. That's why it says that only some readers could see through the artifices and find the real truth in the story, that is, the truth that the narrator has been hiding with his tricks.

yes that is one layer of the story, im talking about the other, where Nabokov is forcing HH into his moral apotheosis through his authorial consciousness and litters small clues all throughout the novel of his presence. There is a dual plot to lolita that you only get through rereading it, and the second layer is more important to Nabokov than the first one.

>the reality of the story
i mean this is what Nabokov played on, he wanted to point out that there is no reality of the story at all, its all just a game. Read Good Readers and Good Writers, its like two pages and he explains everything

okay, thanks lad, will follow advice.

user continue with the story, you have given us too much to stop now.

>that old hoaxer, V.V.!

i hate pedos conceptually too but im a pedo. if you think purely in black/white then you are just a brainlet beyond repair, plain and simple

Pale Fire and Lolita were Nabokov's rejection of conventional analysis of good. He rejected moralism in art, and wanted to create something beautiful and in doing so he affirmed his worldview. All of the red herrings and themes are meaningless details, the premise was the premise. He wanted to destroy the notion of the noble artist, the moral artist, but rather just show the artist as a flawed and vindictive person that made something beautiful in spite of that. Read The Divine Comedy in this manner, and you'll understand Nabokov's purpose. Imagine Dante as being a foolish man made at the world, so he becomes vindictive and makes an artwork that lives on and everything he says must be right. This is what Nabokov did with Lolita and Pale Fire.

conventional analysis of art in terms of good/bad, etc.**

People then say then what's the purpose? And Nabokov would say there is none, but every artist is Humbert Humbert, of course he being an extreme case.

...

Pretty much this. Roman Polanski is a good director.

Classic

Attached: 1575100245043.jpg (1024x1024, 96K)

nuanced and balanced opinion.

And Nabakov's literary exile in Anglophone works.
>a gorilla at a zoo that learned to paint.

>which would permit a few readers - very few readers - to perceive an atrocious or banal reality
The essence of Borges' un-readability (a true journalist cannot also be an artist).

>destroy the notion of the noble artist, the moral artist,
Art-for-art's sake.

help
im obsessed with this book