For this task the class was asked to read an excerpt from our favourite piece. I chose Vladimir Nabokov's 'Lolita', one of my favorite books. Here is the excerpt I chose below:
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. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.
Vladimir Nabokov- ‘Lolita’.
Have a look at the trailer for the film based on the novel.
Why do I like it?: The first few paragraphs of Nabokov’s masterpiece perfectly encapsulate the tone of the entire novel. I love the obsession. The sounding out, repetition and lingering over the narrator’s lover’s name. The way that Nabokov juxtaposes the narrator’s perception of ‘Lolita’ with the real Dolores Haze showcases his insanity, fixation with the girl and unrealistic view of the world.
The pace of ‘to tap, at three, on the teeth’ reflects the narrator’s erratic mind and attention to detail. ‘ You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style’ demonstrates his wicked, warped black humour.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury’ sets the scene for the rest of the book ( the actions which led him to his jail cell). ‘ Look at this tangle of thorns’ makes the reader feel interested in the crime and acts as the perfect metaphor of the eventual demise of both Lolita and the story’s narrator, Humbert Humbert.
Below is my attempt to emulateNabokov’s style in a recount about my high-school woodwork teacher. I tried to copy the passage’s sense of mystery and sombreness and to swap its obsession for contempt. In an attempt to echo Nabokov's use of variations of Delores' name to create tension and rhythm, I have borrowed the lyrics from the tune used in the 'Nightmare on Elm Street' films.
‘Mr Fredricks’.
Mr Fredricks. The bane of my existence, the reason I hated school. Long-limbed, buck toothed, grey haired. Freak. Face. Fredricks. The reeking breath spiralling down my neck, seeping through the fabric of my blouse. The snap of the ruler, cracking through hard wood. The beady eyes. The long socks. Mothballs.
Freddy Krueger.
One. Two. "Good morning class.” Freddy’s coming for you. “Time to have a look at your woodwork.” Three. Four. Better lock your door. "Jenna, what the hell is that?”
Was there ever a time when I tried in woodwork? Of course there was. When I was young and stupid and thought teachers were there to help students learn. Before the taunts. Before the jibes. Before detention.
Trust hours of staring mindlessly at a blackboard to teach me to write.
Mum, Dad, this is why I failed class. This is the reason behind the notes, the phone calls, the parent-teacher meetings. Time to meet my teacher. My monster.
