A few days before his trial was scheduled to start / for the benefits of old-fashioned readers who wish to follow the destinies of the ’real’ people beyond the ’true’ story / But in my arms she was always Lolita / You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style / she had been in love with my father / my cheerfull motherlessness / a little ghost in natural colors (and this is how I see Lolita) / I recall the scent of some kind of toilet powder / I broke her spell by incarnating her in another / ’nymphets’ / mysterious characteristics, the fey grace, the elusive, shifty, soulshattering, insidious charm / artist / madman / infinite melancholy / the little deadly demon among wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power/ Is ’mask’ the keyword? Is it because there is always delight in the semitransclucent mystery, the flowing charshaf, through which the flesh and the eye you alone are elected to know smile in passing you alone? / Combing Curls in the lakeside sun / a suburban sunday / and it is that borderline I would like to fix / I have but followed my nature. I am nature’s faithful hound / her flower / the body of some immortal daemon disguised as a female child / Charlotte! I began to understand you / I want to protect you, dear, from all the horrors that happen to little girls in coal sheds and alley ways / I am the therapist / the normal girl is usually extremely anxious to please her father / her ideals of romance / lovely mauve almond trees in bloom. A blown-off surrealistic arm hanging up there in the pointillistic mauve / (’He broke my heart. You merely broke my life’)
... og det bliver klart, at mine understregninger især er produkter af ren og skær poetisk forførelse, og de få steder, hvor jeg har forsøgt at læse efter 'psykologi' eller 'tematik' (ex. 'I broke her spell by incarnating her in another') også er de svageste (mindst forførende) uddrag. I de sidste par dage har jeg vitterligt fundet mig selv tryllebundet af Nabokovs virkeligt mærkelige og lumre og foruroligende og helt usansynligt smukke vanvittige roman. Jeg ved ikke hvad jeg skal sige. Eller: jeg har slet ikke noget at sige. Meget snart bliver jeg nødt til at læse Stridsbergs 'Darling River' - måske den vil hjælpe mig....
...og så er det lidt sjovt, at denne uges Lolita-seminar bærer titlen: Waste Land, og jeg har taget Eliot frem og læst og læst og tænkt og tænkt over, hvordan jeg skal sammenligne de to værker og fordi jeg har forførelse på hjernen kan jeg kun komme på: FORFØRELSE ('And I was frightened. He said, Marie, / Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. / In the mountains, there you feel free. / I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter' - jeg tror ALDRIG rigtigt jeg kommer til at forstå, hvorfor jeg elsker de vers så højt, selvom jeg har på fornemmelsen, at det har noget med den elegante og ironiske kommatering at gøre). Men så går det op for mig, at jeg netop selv lige nu har produceret mit eget lille Lolita-Waste Land, og måske er det bare sådan, at tekster at elske er tekster, hvorom man mest har lyst til at tie og bare citere og citere og citere....
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