Commentary — August 1, 2011, 10:43 am

The Variety of Influence

The August 2011 issue of Harper’s Magazine features an excerpt from Bonnie Nadzam’s forthcoming debut novel, Lamb. We asked Bonnie to tell us about the origins of the book, and how it relates to a certain canonical work.

Sometimes I’m asked what my novel is about, and friends or family in company glance around, silently acknowledging the awkwardness of the answer. Lamb is about a narcissistic man in his fifties whose life is in major transition, and who has to tell himself a new story in order to regain belief in his own decency. The tale he constructs casts him as the savior of a poor and rather dull eleven-year-old girl who is living what he decides is a miserable, impoverished life. He abducts her. She is complicit, even thrilled. They go west. Things happen.

I didn’t set out to write a book about an older man and a young girl. I’d had in mind something like a western and something about abuse, and something that dissected self-deception to a sufficient degree that I might forgive myself and others for some of the more egregious delusions of my youth. These intentions took the form of a destructive friendship between an unattractive, neglected eleven-year-old child and a self-absorbed, lonely, upper-middle-class man. As I imagine is the case for anyone creating a representational work of art, I went through many days of revision and reconsideration in hopes of both offering readers a new perspective on ordinary things and coming to some sort of peace about my particular past. But inevitably, Lamb’s plot evokes an old song. Oh, it’s Lolita, people say. Were you very much influenced by Nabokov?

I’ve never finished Lolita. I’m a third of the way through it right now (my second try). Initially, it worried and disappointed me that people would hear about Lamb and think Lolita. Why not think instead of the more compatible (and more recent, urgent, and culturally relevant) stories from the nightly news? Or of the preteen next door who is already cashing in on her sexuality? Or of the suburban man across the street who shifts in and out of his house, somehow bereft of the resources poured into him in the 1950s and 1960s? Who once believed in Superman and cowboys and astronauts, and who is now not only spiritually, politically, and philosophically bankrupt, but also tragically aware that he is so? I know, though, that readers will find all kinds of things in the book if they read it themselves, including, inevitably, Lolita. The opportunity to share myriad perspectives on a single story or poem — that’s what has always made me love reading and discussing books.

Nabokov’s influence arises from more than a single work, and I can’t help but point out the irony in his true influence on me: The Nabokov book I have read is his Lectures on Don Quixote, a short text that entirely captured my imagination, but that the well-regarded Kirkus Reviews dismissed as amounting to “little more than an acerbic, uninvolved study-guide — for Nabokov fanatics only.” Despite my failure to read Lolita thoroughly, I’ve always respected Nabokov’s evisceration of the common notion that Don Quixote’s desperate wanderings and faith in ideal beauty amount to just a mirthful, entertaining read. The book is at least in part “a crude and cruel catalogue of abuse” (I mean Don Quixote, not Lolita), and I admire Nabokov’s articulation of how it could nevertheless become such a beloved work in the western canon. Don Quixote, he writes, “is a kind of treatise about how meaning gets into things and lives. It is a book about enchantment, the inappropriateness of enchantment in a disenchanted world.”

After picking up the apathetic Tommie in the section of Lamb excerpted as “The Losing End” in Harper’s, David Lamb spends a great deal of energy explaining to his new and willing protégé what she has missed out on by being born in the 1990s. “In 1952,” he tells her, “the U.S. government spent about 68 billion dollars, total.” At first, she’s uninspired by his lectures. “There isn’t a wild place left on the planet for you,” he tells her. “There isn’t a code of decency or manners left for you to break. And what do you do about it? You shrug.” Lamb vows to show her what’s left of the imagined America he’s been describing. He plays with the child not because he is a predator, but because he is himself a child; his fantasies of life as a cowboy, of entitlement and adventure, have eclipsed what should be responsible adulthood, only to hurt all those he claims to love. It was that kind of hurt — and the despair of realizing I’ve caused as much as I’ve received — that most influenced the shape of my book.

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From the August 2011 issue

The losing end

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

In the exam room, she perched on the table with her feet crossed at the ankles, her blond hair brushing the back of her pink hospital gown. “I don’t know what’s available for me here,” she told her doctor, Katherine Degen, who sat facing her on a stool. “I figured nothing.”

 Some names and identifying details have been changed. 

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The baby was due in November, when Ashley, who was a nurse, hoped to be enrolled in a graduate program to become a nurse practitioner. Getting pregnant as a teenager had forced her to put that dream on hold, but she had thought that she was finally ready; she had even submitted her application shortly before the March 15 deadline. For the first time in her adult life, Ashley felt as if her plans were coming together. Then she missed her period.

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

In the exam room, she perched on the table with her feet crossed at the ankles, her blond hair brushing the back of her pink hospital gown. “I don’t know what’s available for me here,” she told her doctor, Katherine Degen, who sat facing her on a stool. “I figured nothing.”

 Some names and identifying details have been changed. 

“Big, fat zero, unfortunately,” Degen said, making a 0 with her fingers. The last doctor who provided abortions in Rapid City retired in 1986, three years before Ashley was born.

The baby was due in November, when Ashley, who was a nurse, hoped to be enrolled in a graduate program to become a nurse practitioner. Getting pregnant as a teenager had forced her to put that dream on hold, but she had thought that she was finally ready; she had even submitted her application shortly before the March 15 deadline. For the first time in her adult life, Ashley felt as if her plans were coming together. Then she missed her period.

It would be too difficult to attend school as a single mother of two, Ashley knew. She had made an appointment for three weeks from now at the nearest abortion clinic, in Billings, Montana, 318 miles away. But just a week and a half ago, her husband had said he wanted to get back together and offered to raise the child as his own. Was it a sign that she was meant to continue the pregnancy? As a rule, Ashley approached her problems with resolve. She was capable and tough; she liked shooting guns and lifting weights. She kept track of her stats and checked off her goals as she achieved them one by one. Yet the dilemma before her had shaken her confidence. She leaned back and turned to watch the ultrasound screen. The black-and-white image danced. A sharp, fast thumping emerged from the machine. As Degen removed the wand, Ashley wiped the corner of her eye.

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