Lo. Lee. Ta.

Lolita turns fifty this year, as the anniversary of its American publication was in 1958. Damn, she looks good for a quinquagenarian! What a wild ride it’s been, baby. Although, as this article convincingly argues, not as wild as you may assume. The widely held belief that Lolita was banned in more places than it was read is really only consistently true across the pond, in Europe. Ain’t nobody down with Lo back in the day, and that’s the gospel truth. Even high-minded Paris reportedly banned the sweet novel from ’55 to ’59. This warps my delicate sensibilities by suggesting, even for a moment, that America was the more progressive of two evils. Shudder. 

Other things that turn fifty this year!

British parking meters
The Amirkabir University of Technology
Ellen DeGeneres
Boris Paternak’s Nobel Prize for Literature
Bossa nova (Joao Gilberto records "Chega de Sudade")
Instant noodles 
The Jim Henson Company
Alec Baldwin
Joanne Woodward’s Best Actress Oscar for Three Faces of Eve

 

Oh, the memories. "Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.” I tricked my mother into buying it for me when I was eleven; she didn’t know what it was about until I told her many, MANY years later. I didn’t get around to reading it until a few months later, when I had turned 12, but by then the damage was done. It had ruined me for life. I recalled this story to a friend of mine who thought a beat, then proclaimed, “Actually, that explains a lot.”

Because Lolita is to blame, you see, for many of my personal dispositions which, while natural for me, may escape the normal logic for others. Namely, my villain worship, my love of hot messes, and my contempt for normalcy/general love of obscenity. It’s also to blame for my admittedly skewed and largely solipsist perception of right vs. wrong. At several points during that first reading, I’m pretty sure I turned to my teddy bear Wagner and mused, “ That’s a great idea!” each time it sunk lower into the realm of questionable morality. You want proof? I totally had a crush on Humbert Humbert. For a 12 year old, that’s sort of understandable and kind of cute – in a warped way. But: I still do have that crush, but--unlike most childhood shames-- it’s without an ounce of regret, apology or guilt. In my defense, look at the men historically associated with Humbert:

 I never had a chance. What can I say? Me = shallow like a puddle, baby. Go Lo! You ruined everything, but that’s okay.