Nabokov is not unknown here. Pain (reviewed p. 14-1957) had a good press and a discriminating reading public. Conclusive Evidence, an autobiographical segment, had great charm and a certain satiric humor in its recall. But Lolita — to judge by the fan-fare and shocked whisperings of the grapevine — will make him famous- or infamous- according to the market. Some may seek to assess it as an allegory; to this reader this seems far-fetched and a transparent sort of evasion of what might more aptly be termed as a fictionalized panel of Kraft-Ebing, handled with a tenuously balanced self flagellation and a wryly clusive kind of humor. The subject is an unpalatable one:- the ungovernable, torturing passion of a middle aged sensualist for little girls, nymphets he calls them. A Frenchman, he comes to America, trying to run away from himself; he is lured to a New England community because of a dream of an enigmatic nymphet — and finds himself in the trammels of an impossibly involved and tortured affair. His story is told in the form of a confession-published after the perpetrator's death in prison- a confession that traces his perversion back to a passionate interlude in early childhood, through various attempts on a relatively normal plane of passion, to a minute exploration of his fixation on the child Lolita, a spoiled, selfish, ruthless little egotist, out for what she can get. The tale of their wander-year, as they switch across the highways of America, with one night stands in countless motels, appals the reader in its utterly soulless conception of the country and its people. Nothing of beauty or sanity emerges. It is too a horrifying portrait of a Joyeur, whose twisted amorality is explored in intimate detail. That a book like this could be written- published here sold, presumably over the counters, leaves one questioning the ethical and moral standards. I don't agree that it has a titillating fascination that will lead any reader entry- as some feel. I do think there is a place for the exploration of abnormalities, that does not lie in the public domain. Any librarian surely will question this for anything but the closed shelves. Any bookseller should be very sure that he knows in advance that he is selling very literate pornography.
Pub Date: Aug. 18, 1958
ISBN: 0679410430
Page Count: 384
Publisher: Putnam
Review Posted Online: Oct. 1, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Aug. 1, 1958
The Brat Pack meets The Bacchae in this precious, way-too-long, and utterly unsuspenseful town-and-gown murder tale. A bunch of ever-so-mandarin college kids in a small Vermont school are the eager epigones of an aloof classics professor, and in their exclusivity and snobbishness and eagerness to please their teacher, they are moved to try to enact Dionysian frenzies in the woods. During the only one that actually comes off, a local farmer happens upon them—and they kill him. But the death isn't ruled a murder—and might never have been if one of the gang—a cadging sybarite named Bunny Corcoran—hadn't shown signs of cracking under the secret's weight. And so he too is dispatched. The narrator, a blank-slate Californian named Richard Pepen chronicles the coverup. But if you're thinking remorse-drama, conscience masque, or even semi-trashy who'll-break-first? page-turner, forget it: This is a straight gee-whiz, first-to-have-ever-noticed college novel—"Hampden College, as a body, was always strangely prone to hysteria. Whether from isolation, malice, or simple boredom, people there were far more credulous and excitable than educated people are generally thought to be, and this hermetic, overheated atmosphere made it a thriving black petri dish of melodrama and distortion." First-novelist Tartt goes muzzy when she has to describe human confrontations (the murder, or sex, or even the ping-ponging of fear), and is much more comfortable in transcribing aimless dorm-room paranoia or the TV shows that the malefactors anesthetize themselves with as fate ticks down. By telegraphing the murders, Tartt wants us to be continually horrified at these kids—while inviting us to semi-enjoy their manneristic fetishes and refined tastes. This ersatz-Fitzgerald mix of moralizing and mirror-looking (Jay McInerney shook and poured the shaker first) is very 80's—and in Tartt's strenuous version already seems dated, formulaic. Les Nerds du Mal—and about as deep (if not nearly as involving) as a TV movie.
Pub Date: Sept. 16, 1992
ISBN: 1400031702
Page Count: 592
Publisher: Knopf
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 1, 1992
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.
A retelling of ancient Greek lore gives exhilarating voice to a witch.
“Monsters are a boon for gods. Imagine all the prayers.” So says Circe, a sly, petulant, and finally commanding voice that narrates the entirety of Miller’s dazzling second novel. The writer returns to Homer, the wellspring that led her to an Orange Prize for The Song of Achilles (2012). This time, she dips into The Odyssey for the legend of Circe, a nymph who turns Odysseus’ crew of men into pigs. The novel, with its distinctive feminist tang, starts with the sentence: “When I was born, the name for what I was did not exist.” Readers will relish following the puzzle of this unpromising daughter of the sun god Helios and his wife, Perse, who had negligible use for their child. It takes banishment to the island Aeaea for Circe to sense her calling as a sorceress: “I will not be like a bird bred in a cage, I thought, too dull to fly even when the door stands open. I stepped into those woods and my life began.” This lonely, scorned figure learns herbs and potions, surrounds herself with lions, and, in a heart-stopping chapter, outwits the monster Scylla to propel Daedalus and his boat to safety. She makes lovers of Hermes and then two mortal men. She midwifes the birth of the Minotaur on Crete and performs her own C-section. And as she grows in power, she muses that “not even Odysseus could talk his way past [her] witchcraft. He had talked his way past the witch instead.” Circe’s fascination with mortals becomes the book’s marrow and delivers its thrilling ending. All the while, the supernatural sits intriguingly alongside “the tonic of ordinary things.” A few passages coil toward melodrama, and one inelegant line after a rape seems jarringly modern, but the spell holds fast. Expect Miller’s readership to mushroom like one of Circe’s spells.
Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.Pub Date: April 10, 2018
ISBN: 978-0-316-55634-7
Page Count: 400
Publisher: Little, Brown
Review Posted Online: Jan. 22, 2018
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2018
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