Was Nabokov a bad man?

iPlayer is currently holding a documentary on Vladimir Nabokov, the great Russian emigre writer of Lolita ("Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul"). How Do You Solve A Problem Like Lolita?, it is called - the problem being that Lolita, like a number of Nabokov's books, describes its protagonist's paedophilic proclivities towards a pubescent girl.

The book presents its reader with an unsettling paradox: Humbert Humbert is bad man with a tremendous power of expression, a demon word maestro. We are appalled by his observations, but we cannot help but be lured in by his louche, lucid self analysis. If any author by his or her work says 'this is what this predicament feels like', Nabokov is saying, 'this is what it feels like to be a paedophile'.

The big question that has always loomed over the novel, though, is how much of Humbert is Vladimir? And if the answer is - a lot, does this change the way we must regard Lolita?

The documentary features footage from a 1970s interview in which the writer was boldly asked if he was Humbert Humbert. He gave the only answer he could give under the circumstances: no, absolutely not, "I do not know any little girls." Yet as Martin Amis remarks gravely, writers are in the business of distilling their own musings, and Nabokov clearly mused upon these illicit amorous inclinations with an "embarrassing frequency."

There may some reprieve for the great stylist, however. Even if Lolita does represent the most damning evidence of Nabokov's affliction, it may also be the artefact of his redemption. What if Nabokov, instead of using his page as the amber on which to trap his thoughts, used it as an outlet upon which to dispel them, ridding his mind of its impurities?

There is never a question in the book of the vileness of Humbert's peculiar carnal predilections.

Perhaps Lolita is a testament to the purgative nature of writing.
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This video from 1950s CBC programme Close Up shows Nabokov discussing his Lolita.

Portrait of a migrant family

Migrant communities account for such a large section of the capital's population that you often forget how extraordinary the journey's of many of these families have been. I was invited for dinner this week by the father of two boys I tutor in North London. They are an Afghan family living on a council estate in Camden. English is the family's second language - better learned by the children than by the parents it must be said. Najibullah is a mechanic at the local garage, his wife Shillan works part time as a seamstress.

Asking immigrant families like this one why they came to Britain, however interesting one suspects the answer, is not always a good idea - partly because it can spotlight torrid episodes in their past, partly because it is often awkwardly suggestive of the prelude to a xenophobic diatribe.

Such was my good fortune, therefore, when the conversation turned quite naturally onto where we were from and why we had left.

Najibullah, it transpires, was until 1998 the deputy mayor of Meymaneh, the capital of the Faryab province in north of Afghanistan, and a local chieftain of the People's Democratic Party of Afghanistan - the national communist party. His wife, meanwhile, was a prominent general practitioner in the city.

Everything changed, he says, when the Taliban ran riot over the northern provinces twelve years ago. Led by some of the very same men that are currently being bounty hunted by the British army, the fundamentalist paramilitary group launched a series of raids on the region in an attempt to take control over the entire country. They failed, but not before they had either killed or forced into exile virtually all of the 10,000 affiliated members of the PDPA.

Najibullah scrambled onto the nearest Europe-bound ferry with his wife, his two infant children, and his cousin Messah, who has joined us for a feast of traditional middle-eastern cuisine. His father, brother and brother in law were all murdered, Najibullah says.

"My whole family had lived in same part of Faryab for three generations. My wife and I attended the local university, and I had been deputy mayor for five years.

"The Taliban had been conducting an eradication of the PDPA from the south of the country upwards. As soon as we began to hear of the kidnapping and slaughter of party members in the nearest city we knew it was time to leave."

Shillan meanwhile (who like the rest of the women in the room has stood for the entire meal) had been practicing medicine for ten years before she came to Britain. She is desperate to obtain the necessary qualifications to become a doctor here too, but she fears she might be too old to perfect her English to the required standard. Hence her minimally paid job at the local clothiers.

You do wonder how common such stories are amongst the immigrant populations of the city. Probably not very, but it does confound crude suggestions that such families come to Britain for an easier standard of living. Who knows how hard it must be for people with degrees in Mathematics and Medicine, and who have known such high positions of influence in their communities, to have to adapt to a precarious life at the bottom borders of society. Most people are lucky enough never to find out.

Does anyone not like Alan Bennet?

Every reader brings a different perspective to bear upon a text, and few writers can accommodate them all. But if any deserves the epithet 'universally edifying' then it is surely Alan Bennet.

Whilst it is commonly said of the greatest authors that they are often the most divisive, the seventy-five year old play-write whose latest production 'The Habit of Art' is now showing at the National Theatre, appears to unite in admiration those of even the most opposed literary tastes.

What is it about the aging wordsmith from Leeds that is so appealing?

A candid interview last week with the BBC's Mark Lawson, in anticipation of the play's opening, reminded viewers that in spite of Bennet's myriad successes and assured reputation, he is still a writer much perplexed (troubled even) by the human condition.

Sitting on a spacious window-side balcony overlooking the London Embankment - a man who has won plaudits from around the world - Bennet still pauses timidly before addressing the obviously benign lines of inquiry, clearly vexed by the circumstances and happenstances that have made up his life.

What distinguishes Bennet from other literary giants of the age is his unbreakable humility. He is in many ways the antithesis of Martin Amis, whose coruscating wit and verbal flare can leave readers feeling berated. Bennet, by contrast, is slow and methodical. He never rushes to assert his case, and never more than touches on a conclusion. It is hard to imagine him having an argument.

If he appears to have not the least bit aged over the last ten years, it is perhaps more because he always had the tentative nature of an elderly man, rather than because he has retained a youthful vitality. Bennet appears calm and wistful - a man who has lost the capacity for embarrassment, and whose measured radicalism (he wishes New Labour had had the courage to do away with private 6th form education) has in fact only hardened with time.

It occasionally irks us when a face that ordinarily cowers from the limelight reappears merely to tell us to go and see his or her latest pic or production, but it is impossible not to feel deeply moved by Alan Bennet's attempts to disentangle the messier parts of life. Impossible not to feel that, however commercially-timed his return to our screens is, this man matters, so we should give him the time.