To Amanda

In response to Amanda's question regarding why Nabokov wrote a novel about a pedophile, I have this to say:

There are a number of reasons he could have decided to write about a pedophile, and we will probably never know for sure why he made his choice. However, one possibility could be that he did it because it is an authors responsibility to represent reality. Unfortunately, pedophilia is a real thing, and there are men like Humbert out there. Another reason could be to toy with the reader's emotions. Nabokov loves to make his readers reflect deeply on his writings. What's a better way to do that than to portray a man who we should be immediately repulsed by, but then add in factors that make the reader feel sympathy for him. It really causes one to question morality by blurring a line that seems like it would be well defined.

It is very possible that neither of these are the real answer to her question. Nabokov, and Nabokov alone, knows the answer...or maybe even he doesn't. People often don't know he real reason behind things that they do.

Lolita Annotations

So the photo copy didn't come out as clear as I would have hoped, but the page number is 58, and the circles on the left have numbers in them and denote a annotation. I will do my best to include the subjects which the numbers refer to below.


1. "...banal, Eden-red apple": This is one of the many references within Lolita to the scene in Genesis where Eve eats an apple from the tree of knowledge. The allusion continues on in the page as well with her tossing the apple up and down, as if playing a game with him, and then taking a bite out of it.

2. "And her white Sunday purse lay discarded near the phonograph": white often refers to innocence, and the fact that it has been thrown to the side and she is not in church could allude to the lack of innocence in Lolita. This would go along with the loss of Eve's innocence after biting into the apple as well.

3. "I produced Delicious": A Delicious is a specific kind of red apple, and it is an obvious reference to this type. Delicious could also possibly refer to either Lolita, or possibly and erection since Humbert has become extremely aroused in this scene.

4. "She grasped it and bit into it, and my heart was like snow under thin crimson skin...": This could refer to the story of snow white, who also bites into an apple and is poisoned. As Lolita bites into the apple, she takes a piece of his heart, and in the end she kind of acts as a poison in his life. Humbert also speaks of a kind of mist which surrounds him after she takes a bit, which could be from a kind of spell from the apple.

5. "...a plaster replica of the Venus di Milo...": Venus (also known as Aphrodite) is the Greek goddess of love and beauty. Venis di Milo is a marble statue of the goddess, and although her arms were broken off, it is said that in one hand she used to hold and apple and with the other she held her dress at the knee. This image is another reference to the apple/forbidden fruit. Lolita is like a Goddess to Humbert, and he finds her extremely beautiful and arousing. Also, Lolita's knees are exposed as well in this scene with her hands resting on them. (Below I have included a picture of the Venus di Milo)

Butterflies

Over the summer I spent 8 weeks in Costa Rica, and while there saw some amazing things. It was some of the most beautiful landscape that I have ever seen, and to go along with the beauty of the land were thousands of butterflies. They were everywhere, and one of the things numerous that caught my attention. Although I would say that most young boys are not avid collectors of butterflies, and are generally more enthralled with other more "gross" insects, I can see why Nabokov was so fascinated with them. Butterflies are beautiful creatures, breathtaking even. They float through the air with a grace unmatched by any other insect or animal. They come in a huge variety of shapes, colors, and forms; all designed for specific purpose. The enigma that is nature never ceases to amaze me. It is filled with creations more beautiful and inricate than anything designed by the human hand. Butterflies, in my opinion are just one such creation. I thought that I would include some of the pictures of them that I took while over there since Nabokov loved butterflies so much. Unlike him, I am not a butterfly conesieur, and don't know the names of the different species so I have just included the pictures.

This is a moth, not a butterfly, but I loved it for it's

unique look. It is difficult to tell from the picture, but it had

a much different texture than any moth I have ever seen. The

coloring is unique as well.

The next two pictures are of the same species of butterflies,

but show the difference between the

colors found on the inside and the outside of the wings.

Note the eyes, which Nabokov mentions a number of

times throughout Speak, Memory, on the outside wings.

Also, they reminded me of the species that he discovered because of

the brilliant blue hue of the their inner wings.

These last two pictures are of the same kind of butterlfy as well,

and look similar to the ones above, but are different.

One can see the differences if they look closely.

My Discovery of Literature

In class today we briefly discussed our first discovery of literature. Some people had a relatively vivid memory of that discovery, but I most definitely do not. I started classes at a Montessori school when I was three, and from day one we were taught to read. Up until highschool our teachers always read to our class, and we generally had "reading time" as well. I remember in fourth grade each student had to make a life sized cutout picture of them doing their favorite activity, and I painted myself reading a book. Literature has been a part of my life since I can remember. I have always had a love for reading. However, that said, it was not until college that I really learned to read critically. In fact, it was not until my third semester of college, because before that I was a mechanical engineering major. Before that I read a lot for pleasure, but did not get nearly as much out of the books as I do when I read now. College has transformed the way that I read a book, and greatly increased the discoveries that I make. So I guess if I had to give an exact moment when I truly discovered the depth and complexity of literature, it would probably have to be in the first class that I took from Doctor Sexon. He has helped me so much to become a more critical reader, and I can't tell you how that has opened my eyes to the immense world of literature.

El Salto del Puente Colorado

This picture was taken by my father on July 27, 2009 in Costa Rica. I remember the exact date for two very specific reasons. The first being that the moment captured in this photo occurred the day before my family left Costa Rica, and also because of the action which we had all just completed prior to the this picture being taken.


The three people standing in the forefront of the photo are my younger sister, me, and our Tico guide Fernando. The three of us, as well as my father, had been travelling together for a total of five days and were on our way back to San Jose to catch a plane back to the US when we stopped at this location. We had discussed stopping here on the way to Monteverde, a beautiful mountain town surrounded by thick rainforest and located strategically located between two national parks, but had put it off due to nerves. The thick metal railing dissecting the picture hint at the fact that we are standing on a bridge, as does the plethora of green trees who's height is dwarfed by our own elevation, but it is impossible to gauge the distance between it and the ground. There is an approximately 265 foot drop from the bridge to the roaring water rushing below us. If one is afraid of heights, which I admittedly am to some degree, looking straight down would not be advised.

The two men wearing yellow shirts in the background were responsible for tightly securing our ankles to a long rubber band of a rope and fashioning our wastes with harnesses just in case something went terribly wrong. For a few brief moments, our lives were completely in their hands. They were encouraging, although somewhat sarcastic and taunting at points, and assured us that everything would be fine. The instructions that they gave us went something like this, "You will sit on the edge of the bridge facing us as we secure your ankles. After we have finished you will turn around and step out on the ledge, which looked very much like a diving board, and drop the rope over the edge in front of you. You should align your toes with the edge of the ledge while holding on to the pole beside you, and we will begin to count from four back to one. At the point that one is called out, you jump, hands out beside you as if you are flying. Oh, and don't look down..." As if we hadn't already looked down and our hearts were not beating fast enough already. I remember my hands feeling like they were being pricked by a thousand little needles and feeling my heart beat in my ponytail, which was obviously taken out before the picture.

All four of us had already made the jump before the picture was taken, and although one cannot easily glean it through our smiling faces and laid back postures, we were still shaking from the surge of adrenaline that shot through our bodies moments before. My shoes have yet to be put back on after the jump, even though I went first. My camera is hanging across my body, still warm from shooting the descents of my father and sister. My sister still holds my father's belongings, including his wedding ring and pocket change, removed before the big jump. The Tico's behind us are undoubtedly still laughing softly to themselves about the terror that they saw cross our faces in the moments between stepping out on the ledge and flinging our bodies toward potential death by impact.


This picture captures the aftermath of few mere seconds of my life that I will never forget, and that I hope to reenact someday in the future.

Earliest Memory

The first memory that I can conjure up, without the help of external associations, occurred when I was three years old. The memory is incomplete, undoubtedly due to the fact that at that point in my life that which was not visually stimulating was deemed unimportant and therefore lost somewhere in the abyss of time. I remember being one of a number of people sitting in a rather small room, and I am sitting on my father's lap. My grandfather, much less gray than he is now, is garbed in a black suite, by no means his usual attire, and is sitting facing the rest of the group. He is the only one speaking, the exact words I no longer recall, ad the rest of the room is silent except for the intermittent sniffles and and the rustling of cloths as hands wipe tears from people's eyes. I remember an elderly lady, not someone that I recognise, laying in a large shiny box next to my grandfather. She is completely still and seems unaware of, or at least unaffected by, that which is going on around her. This woman has grey curled hair, and I was quite enthralled by the bright colored flowers decorating her white flowing dress. The next thing that I remember is an empty, well lit, and blindingly white hallway. I was aggravated and fighting to free myself from the grasp of my father's hands. I wanted to run and break through the barrier of silence back into the normal world. A world full of interesting things, different noises, and a world full of smiles and unwavering attention on me. It was then that my gaze fell upon a drinking fountain. Not one like you would find in a school, but one similar to those placed in the lobbies of psychiatrists or lawyers. One with two different knobs, red and blue, and a huge tank of water resting at the very top. That very drinking fountain is the last thing I remember from that time.

A few years ago I asked my father about it, unsure weather such an event was simply a figment of my imagination, perhaps originating from a dream, or an actual occurrence. He was taken aback by the fact that I remembered that day and told me that it had been the funeral of his great grandmother. His father, previously a priest, had in fact lead the service and it was his mother who had died. It is funny what we remember. I had no connection to this lady, except through blood, but I remember her funeral. I barely even remember the funeral of my great grandfather who died years and years later. What is it that keeps some memories so vivid in our minds and makes some lost forever? I don't know...but it is interesting...