As I read the opening pages of Lolita, a woman who seems to be speaking Russian, catches my attention. She doesn’t have a luminous face nor does she appear mysterious. What appeals to me are her pearls, the perfectly round white pearls around her neck.
She and an old Russian man are busy talking to each other. The man has a hunch and appears older, though is most likely not her father.
I continue reading Lolita and just as I get close to escaping reality and entering the world of Humbert Humbert, my mind sidetracks and I look up to see the two of them talking. They are discussing Russia’s politics or perhaps they’re having a more casual conversation, like one about literature and art. Maybe they’re just talking pearls.
“Who gave you those pearls?” the man is asking.
“Oh it was so long ago, but I believe they were my sister’s.”
Whether they’re really talking about the pearls is an unimportant factor, incidental, even irrelevant to the matter. The subject of interest is simply the white pearls that have a definite shape, unlike the fictitious books that can always be interpreted differently.
The things that never fail to bring us back to reality are facts, figures, solids, things we can touch, feel, smell. Even pearls around a woman’s neck have the power to destroy a fictional masterpiece.