I mentioned before how I followed the path of least
resistance and more or less stumbled ass-first into this career path. But that still doesn’t explain exactly why
librarian was my last-minute desperation choice. There has to be some reason that was on the
top of the pile when I reached into my hat and grabbed one. There is.
I blame Vladimir Nabokov.
Allow me to back up.
I’ve always been a good reader.
In fact, I was unusually good. In
kindergarten the teacher tested us on our reading level by pulling us into the
hall individually and asking us to read.
She gave me the book and I read it.
Really read it. Not sounding out words, and not pointing to
the picture of the tiger and saying “kitty!,” I read it fluently. She thought I must have had that book at home
and knew it by heart, so she gave me another.
And another. And another. Then she finally realized that I was actually
reading those books. She was shocked;
she had never seen that before from someone my age.
I would go on to take the ACTs and score in the 99th
percentile for reading and 97th or 98th for grammar.
Don’t get me wrong, I suck enough at math and science to
balance that out so I don’t consider myself a genius by any means. I’m not bragging, just giving you background.
The point is, I was good at reading right from the
start. And I loved reading. I loved it right up to the age of 13 or 14,
when I let that hobby slide in favor of other hobbies (not all of which involved my genitalia). It wasn’t until the Summer before college
that I began to read for pleasure again.
Although, it wasn’t really pleasure I was doing it for, to be
honest. It was simply because I wanted
to be viewed as intelligent, and intelligent people should be able to list
well-known books they’d read, or be ready at any moment to talk about what they
were reading at the time. So I began
reading some of those books that intelligent people “should” have under their
belt. Catcher in the Rye, For Whom
the Bell Tolls, Moby Dick. You know, those kinds of books. I didn’t dislike them, but I can’t say I
loved them. Then I read A Clockwork Orange, and that sparked
something in me. I actually enjoyed
reading it; I found it fun. For once
since I was 13, reading really was pleasurable and not just something I
“should” be doing. But when I returned
the book to the library, I still felt the same as always. I still merely felt proud that I had another
well-known book under my belt.
The next book I checked out was Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.
There is no hyperbole in stating that this book changed my
life. It was beautiful, so so
beautiful. The language, the flowery
prose, it was art. It wasn’t
entertainment or an idea or a conversation piece, it was, simply, art, in all
its raging beauty. When I finished and
went to put it in the library return drop, I didn’t feel a trace of that pride
from having “another one under my belt.”
That didn’t matter anymore. All I
felt was sadness for the fact that it was over, that I couldn’t immerse myself
in it forever. It was hard from me to
open up my fingers and let the book drop.
It actually took a few seconds to bring myself to let it go.
It’s almost scary to think that, as much as Lolita changed my life, it’s not even my
favorite novel by Nabokov. I’ve read 7
of them, and almost every single one of his short stories. My favorite, Pale Fire, is one of the few books I actually own, and I have read
it almost countless times now.
Vladimir Nabokov is why I have a passion for the printed
word. He’s why I hold books sacred. He’s why the library, and what it represents,
is special to me. And if not for that,
the library wouldn’t have been the place I settled on when forced to decide
where I wanted to spend my life. Where
would the path of least resistance have taken me if not for that? I have no idea.
For a long time, Nabokov was the reason I was happy. He changed my life in more ways than what I
just discussed. He made me happy. No, not happy. Content.
Reading his short stories inspired something in me, made me feel like I
could feel “at peace,” and satisfied, whatever was going on. That as long as I could find and appreciate
the beauty around me, it would be enough.
As you can see, this did not last. Now that the real world had ground me down,
and now that I don’t have time to read Nabokov’s works anymore anyway, and now
that I’ve become the failure I am, the glow of that contentment has faded. Nabokov made me serenely happy, and then in
time he made me a depressed, miserable wreck.
So I guess you can say I know what it’s like to have been in
love.
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