Of My Moleskine Notebook

I have gotten myself a copy of Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita today. I must admit, it has been a delayed purchase, with my buying other books instead of getting Lolita straight away. The first time i heard about the book was from a review written in another language which drives my teacher to the edge. And from that we can conclude that what I have derived from it would be lacking some words, if not the whole substance itself.

I can clearly recall that the review was a short blub of Sofia Coppola’s, of whom became idolistic to me for some moment above some reason or another, and that when I read it, I was far more pure and naive than I am now. The first time I picked it up from the store bookshelf and read the first few pages, I thought it was a mere obsessive love story. When I reread the first page for the thousandth time today, for the first description in my eyes is the most simple and beautiful introduction ever, I realized the disclosed prose of clearly, uncivilised longing. Hey don’t blame me, I read it in French Vogue.

If you are as naive as I was, and the word Lolita didnt ring any bells for you, the word has actually become a pseudonym for “A seductive adolescent girl” to dictionary.com, “nympets” to those who understand the concept of nymphomania or forms of ulysses, or “kiddie sex” as a friend of mine says it.

I’m not going to explain the whole book to you… Because I believe I have said some obscene words and imaginative prose here already. So click here, as I believe this book’s beauty is in coming to the facts yourself and not someone else. That is the exact copy they have in Kinokuniya, though I purchased the second last copy so go on and try your luck.

Yet don’t get the story wrong, the prose, the obsession, the intoxicating heartfelt words that go on for paragraphs without stop, choking choking you with beauty itself is actually really really good. I won’t put my foot into any area that agrees or disagrees with the book. I agree it is indeed obscene, purtrid and sinful. Yet I can’t disagree that its beautiful, enchanting, critical and raw with polished poems in every paragraph.

Language-wise, since I don’t really understand Salman Rushdie’s prose that much, I can say the prose here beats The Ground Beneath her Feet anytime. Ok, you have the right to say I’m being facile. But really, if it wasn’t for Ulysses by James Joyce, The Ground Beneath Her Feet would be the hardest book I’ve tried to read so far. And Henry Thoreau. Yeah. Hmm.

On a lighter note, my english teacher makes us bring a novel to school everytime there is english. We would do our work normally and when there is time, we would be given time to read and then present our books. The presentations have not started yet, though I know the first one to go upfront and talk would most probably be me because of my sometimes-quite-unfortunate-at-times-like-these name. I think I might present something more cheerfull, like the Great Gatsby or something. Really, try imagining me presenting Lolita.

“Er. This is an obsessive yet beautiful story of which prose I ador-”

“Get to the point Ainaa.”

“Errr.Its a story about apedophilewhoishauntedbyhischildhoodgirlfriendwhodiedfromsomewierdtyphus
thinganditsastoryabouthimcourtingthe12yearoldgirlandfornicateswithherandallander.”

*Whole class stares in silence while I get sent to the counsellor’s office for being mentally disturbed*

Yeah anyway I’m not too bummed if I have to read a part of the first page. I love it so much. Here’s a small part of it:

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.

I have spent a night in Kuala Lumpur last night, the reason being that my parents bought a voucher for a night’s stay at a hotel there for a charity auction. The place was beautiful, but the view was just magnificient.

I slept facing the window, a view of the KL skyline and everything else below us. Cars, like lighted ants, sprawled across the roads beneath us, simeaultaneously, never stopping for anything. Other from buildings, I could see construction, a building untiled and roofless at check in, and nearly ready at check out.

Last night, as I was feigning sleep and staring out the window at the same time, I pondered on what will become of this city in a decade’s time. It’s a rat race out here, with dial a suit people walking back and forth in Starhill, art spots like PageOne closing down, to only move and be compressed into space in Kinokuniya, and hackneyed determination to “not lose out”.

I feel so old, with everyone and everything I thought I knew moving forward into worlds unreachable by myself. My mother has read up on some courses on my further education, a degree in economics and language. As industrious as it sounds, as then I can professionalise in MacroEcons and get to work in cool places or a nice office anyway, I really really don’t actually give a damn about Bursa Malaysia. I realized this as my parents were talking about the malaysian banks liquidifying blahblahblah to stimulate the economy blahblahblah yesterday over brunch, and the only thought that could come to mind was, What the foo-sh?

Maybe I’m going through a bohemian phase myself, as I can see that my family does have some Hippy tendecies, with my sister and her free speech and mother with her protesting, or maybe I really shouldnt have bought Walden by Henry Thoreau. Heck, I didn’t even finish that book. This may sound impertinent but I find it impassively boring.

I really don’t know much of what I want to do, as you all know all my obsessions with art and building, and numbers, yet I really don’t want to wait till I turn 17 to do so. On the daily want status, I just wish that my KH teacher would come to school and teach us Technical Drawing already, my mother would let me use her brand new not even touched Camcorder, that proves she was buying for the sake of buying, again, and that I can sort all my trivial little mess bundles.

Sounds really facile, but no matter how much I stare at the twin towers, or at books or words with it’s flawless prose, life still seems to have no grounding, or not much at least. I’m thankful for all the exposure the world had offered, but sometimes one can’t help but feel dettered and greedy, and the gleaming building, the pages and the words just seem to fade away.

Life as we know it, is far larger than our approximation of it, as our approximation hardly has any stand at all as our ideals are not even ideals in the first place. Ideas are wafting thoughts that stir in idle minds and content brains, to build and to destroy this virtual world we look at, as our mind, is always on something else, anyway.

I really can’t see how anyone can comment on that. I ramble to much. Pardon me.

And oh yes, I watched Wicker Park, and it’s impeccably beautiful. I’ve yet to watch the original version of L’Appartement, (like how?) and reviews say that the latter seems to be better, so i guess I’ll have to hunt that somewhere. And oh yes, there is a track on the soundtrack, called We All Have a Map of the Piano by Mum, and it’s really good.

And to humour you all a bit, the hotel charged me RM24 for the buffet breakfast, thinking I was 12, and my friends in language class said I look like a school girl. I have once been told by my friend when we were talking about legal age, that I can hardly pass through any club, with my china doll fringe, but really, the hotel people thought I was TWELVE? Must be those socks. I really blame those socks. And the shoes. And the skirt. And-

And yes, a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY (!!! ?? !?) to my sister who turns 24 today. Hope you have a nice one. =)