The Enchanter

Though I have no Russian to make a forensic case of what I'm about to say, I have a hunch that Nabokov's Russian at the time of his writing THE ENCHANTER exceeded the mastery of English that Nabokov would later demonstrate with LOLITA et al. Even in English translation, THE ENCHANTER is more poetry than prose, a phenomenom not unlike Flaubert's MADAME BOVARY. Every sentence quivers with meaning, conveying a sinuous artistry that only the brevity of the piece seem to spoil and mar. Then again it may be the brevity of the piece that its perfection can't do without.

...but is it my own lack of a philosophically absolute morality, or Nabokov's ambiguity, that makes The Enchanter such an uncomfortable book to read? I will confess, to establish my critical credibility, that I have transgressed the Mosaic commandments about my neighbor's wife and, yes, also his maidservant. I didn't get to throw the first stone at Bill Clinton or wife-betraying John McCain for their sleazy behavior. But some behaviors do disgust me, outrage me, enflame me with vengeful wrath. Sexual violence toward children is so creepy that I'd throw away my objections to capital punishment for it. The Enchanter is a novella about the obsession of a middle-aged man with barely pubescent girls, in which the protagonist schemes slyly for months to gain access to such a girl, in the role of her widowd step-father, in order to seduce her and shape her to his fantasies. In the end, his hateful self-control fails and he tries to rape her. She screams, the "world" intervenes, and the hopeful pederast throws himself before a truck in the dark. There, I've told the story, spoiled the denouement, haven't I? But as always with Nabokov, it's the language that matters anyway, the wily tricks the master plays with our sympathies and susceptibilities, the bitter taste in the mouth this story leaves in the form of the realization that any of us might be as depraved and loathsome to ourselves as the nameless protagonist of The Enchanter. That's one possible reading, anyway, and the one offered by Nabokov's son Dimitri, who translated the novella from Russian to English. Is it my reading? Only provisionally, at best. The vividness of the sexual details and of the sadistic finale seem altogether too artful, so that I fear "somebody out there" will be enjoying them a bit too freely. (There I go, throwing the stone after all.) It's one thing to formulate an acceptable answer to the question of 'what Nabokov meant by such a tale.' It's another to be troubled by the question of 'why Nabokov chose to write such a tale.' Notice that I've made no mention of a connection between this novella, written in Europe, and a much more famous novel written later in America. Let's leave it that way, with the understanding that many of the same perplexities will arise.

"The Enchanter" is an incredible example of what Nabokov can do in less than 100 pages. The book is a portrait of a pedophile, in his own words. Despite the fact that it is a translation, the genius of the original text is carefully preserved by his son, Dmitri's rendition into English. The prose is practically verse. The use of language is pure genius. And the device of using the deviant mind as the story teller is again, just another example of Nabokov's incredible creative ability. As noted in the afterword by Dmitri, the title of the book most usually translates to "The Magician" but apparently, Nabokov indicated that his intended English translation should be "The Enchanter." Perhaps this is because the pedophile is enchanted with the concept of having a prepubescent girl to bring along through all the various sexualities that ran within his warped persona. Additionally, the story rolls along as an incredible pace. The last 10 pages being probably the most `enchanting' of all, as the story comes to a crashing crescendo of an ending. Like most of the writings of Nabokov, the book is an example of a brilliant novelist at his very best. Do not fail to read the afterword by Dmitri Nabokov, the translator and son of the author, especially where he disavows any direct relationship to "Lolita." It is recommended to those with a wide vocabulary and a not overly judgmental mind.

That insight, about introspection itself constituting the story, is made by Dmitri Nabokov in an essay appended to The Enchanter. As many have noted in so many words, "The Enchanter" lacks Humbert Humbert's appeal. Still, Nabokov permits us to see in the enchanter, perhaps more succintly than in Lolita, the introspective anxiety of an outwardly ordinary man driven mad by his single-minded obsession with an eternally adolescent female, at least eternal younth "was the carnal postulate." He can neither ignore her as as an object of his desire, nor bring himself to rationalize adequately her hold on him. Indeed, he can empathize with her disgust as he envisions himself through her eyes, a "monstrosity, some ghastly disease." The book's opening sentence, a question, signals the ordeal that is about to unfold, "How can I come to terms with myself?" And, the answer is that he cannot; he cannot gain the distance he needs from his moral framework. He is both sinner and judge; without control,insane and yet damned as a morally responsible soul.

Definitivamente, si un autor decide no publicar una obra en vida, sus herederos (por más dinero que quieran o necesiten, por más avaros que puedan ser) deberían abstenerse de hacerlo. Se deben respetar las decisiones del autor, que es el único que tiene derecho a tomarlas. Esta obra (genial, como todo lo que escribió el autor) es una especie de ejercicio inicial que luego daría origen a uno de los libros más hermosos que se han escrito en la historia: "Lolita". Pero, siendo una especie de experimento, carece de la calidad de este último. En todo caso es un documento importante para estudiosos de la literatura, pero en si mismo, empobrece un poco la totalidad de la obra de Vladimir Nabokov. Cero (0) estrellas para Dmitri (su osado hijo).