Spring in Fialta
A malign star kept him
Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov (initially published in 1951, revised and extended in 1966) - Lots to unpack in this book. I will dwell on its strength and begin with its flaws. Nabokov is a peculiar one for me. He is a writer who (rightfully) considers the crafting of literature as an entirely private pleasure, an entirely private puzzle. Superb approach until you get to the man himself. His confidence and sense of self-worth is unsurpassed in literature. He is utterly and shamelessly in love with his own uniqueness and sensibilities. His arrogance as an individual knows no bound. After his meteoric rise to fame in late middle-age, he was a merrily plump man who loved sitting down and absolutely ripping apart other books, other authors (some of which I agreed with, some of which I don't, but always an entertaining number) What makes it even funnier is that the goofy bastard could largely back it up. But what it can also do, for an artist as detail-obsessed as Nabokov, is it'll make him drone on, become tedious, gets caught up in his literacy to silly effect. For the general reader, there is no necessity or great pleasure to reading him go on about mushrooms. Certain of his vivid pictures can become such a mishmash of details and colors that they ultimately become murky. Also, Nabokov, who trusts his own judgement so greatly, has no qualms about rising the few people he loves as icons to be venerated by all whose paths crossed theirs. This is particularly ridiculous at the start of the book. His father (a wealthy democratic man who worked in various high-level government positions) being tossed in the air by happy Russian peons is an eye-roller. Now, the great, which is very great, because at his top dollar, Nabokov is as good and memorable an author as anyone who came before and after him. I just think he lacks the consistency of my absolute favorites (McCarthy, Kafka).
Chapter 9 - A 12 year-old Nabokov, largely unaware of the minute details of his father's work, learns that his father will be involved in a duel with a slandering editor (often a target of right-wing garbage, it is said that this insult, never explained, could not be ignored). Like one can be shocked reading Cormac McCarthy giving himself away to emotion, a similar shock is felt reading Nabokov, who fancies himself a genius the moment he is birthed, admits to bugging out with fear and panic. Like I said in a previous post, this fear and panic stemming from a little boy's love and respect for his father, gives way to the greatest declaration of love that I have ever read. Getting in schoolyard fight with a friend he somehow deems responsible, shouting at a carriage driver to hurry home, reminiscing of the tender gestures of his father (a particularly great one revolves around his father, knowing his son is obsessed with butterflies, darting into his room, grabbing Nabokov's net without a word and running out to catch and bring back a rare specimen to his son) gives way to a return home where immediately he understands that an apology was offered to his father and all will be okay. There, Nabokov, unable to look at his father, admits to weeping (with the perfect 'I had no handkerchief'). I wept too. And gracefully, gorgeously, Nabokov, whose father is to die ten years in Berlin later shot by fascists, makes sure to explain that this future untimely death in no way alters the loving memory he has of that day. In fact, in the first pages of the book, his father's death is presented subtly with fascinating skill and hints at a grief that Nabokov deems entirely private.
The greatest line of the book: 'But no shadow was cast by the future event upon the bright stairs of our St Petersburg house; the large cool hand resting on my head did not quaver, and several lines of play in a difficult chess composition were not blended yet on the board.'
Chapter 7 - No tears. All smiles. Also previously published as the short story Colette or First Love. A ten year-old Nabokov heads to Biarritz for a family vacation. There, he falls in love for the first with time with a french girl named Colette. The first half of the chapter details the train ride to Biarritz, where Nabokov's lovely recollection of the train details gives way to sublime descriptive prose. The words 'Someone's comfortable cough' while describing the surroundings before sleep will remain with me forever. The second half deals with his chance friendship (with undertones of romance the children are naturally too young to fully grasp) with the french girl. It's fuzzy and all smiles and laughs. His words after she pelts a kiss on his cheek? You little monkey! They hatch an escape plan together, eloping only with a single cold coin and her dog before finally getting caught at a nearby cinema. Nabokov is submitted to a perp walk under his brother's amazed eye. The last paragraph is a stunner for anyone oppressed with the trouble of nostalgia and memory (which I've struggled with as well immensely for not similar but relatable reasons).
The Comedy - Despite all his fame, all his acclaim, one thing that is acknowledged but underrated regarding Nabokov was his humor. It is one of the best things about him. He is ridiculously goofy and funny. One of the 20th century's great comics. He's a total, low-key nut who hides it under his eloquence and patrician manners. His gripes are outrageous. He has an intense philosophical hate for sleep, calling it debasing and a 'moronic fraternity'. A teenaged crush is ruined by her taking part in a dumb dance number, Nabokov deeming the transgression unforgivable. He finally (and solemnly) deduces that a previous tutor is completely insane when he remembers that the tutor became a government official and managed to ship his wife to a gulag, where she died. Another (warmly remembered) tutor is a kind and bumbling fool (similar to Nabokov's greatest fictional creation, the adorable Pnin) who freezes at examinations or when helped to study by Nabokov's father, and who finally speaks when disagreeing with Nabokov's father when the latter gently tells him that he's bound to fail his exam and that he doesn't know a thing. In another tender phrase, this tutor, being of Jewish descent, Nabokov claims not to know what happened to him during the war. Nor does he wish to, remembering the tutor as a decent and pure man. Throughout the book, Nabokov is also superb at turning mundane phrase or moments with a small twist that gets a laugh at the reader.
Soccer Goalkeeping - I was pleasantly surprised to read that Nabokov recognized the greatness of soccer goalkeeping. I did not know he played. I'd have kept playing competitively if I wasn't 5'9 and hadn't also discovered the joys of teenage drinking and party romances. He describes the sentiment and oddness of the position perfectly. For me, goalkeeping is a position that I find even more exciting and impressive than that of the playmaking ten or net-filling nine. I will watch a video of Buffon's save on Zidane's overtime header ('06 World Cup Final) before the latter's Panenka even if I will readily concede that Zidane's gall to do so in a final is one of the 21st century's great sporting moments. Also, as a great treat, wanting to see if Nabokov had written more about goalkeeping, I found this little gem regarding San Jose's very own talented Nabokov, the great Evgeni. Sports of The Times; Two Goalies Named Nabokov (Published 2000). A rookie taking the league by storm, they ask him about Vladimir Nabokov and read him the goalkeeping passage, which Evgeni Nabokov (unaware of who the author is), expands on and relates a bit more to the hockey counterpart.
This is a phenomenal book. But it is to be taken with a bit of a grain of salt. Short of being a fascinating specimen that should have been studied by scientists, one cannot reasonably deduce that Nabokov's extremely vivid details of his childhood can be remembered with such extreme precision. I think it is safe to assume that Nabokov may have amped it up a bit. Also, very little is centered around his wife and child or even his life in Europe post-Russia. I wish I could have read about more of this, although it is obvious that Nabokov wrote this book to remember his very own Russia, which he never returned to after the revolution. The book ends perfectly, the moment before the family is to board a boat to New York. A must read for anyone who is interested in the man, the author and his work. While I think he has his flaws, I must admit, his way of thinking and approaching art (as well as his other obsessions: chess and butterfly chasing) is utterly fascinating and I find myself agreeing with essentially all of it, although I am not as rigid an opponent to the literature of ideas and dicdaticism as he was.
Chapter 9 - A 12 year-old Nabokov, largely unaware of the minute details of his father's work, learns that his father will be involved in a duel with a slandering editor (often a target of right-wing garbage, it is said that this insult, never explained, could not be ignored). Like one can be shocked reading Cormac McCarthy giving himself away to emotion, a similar shock is felt reading Nabokov, who fancies himself a genius the moment he is birthed, admits to bugging out with fear and panic. Like I said in a previous post, this fear and panic stemming from a little boy's love and respect for his father, gives way to the greatest declaration of love that I have ever read. Getting in schoolyard fight with a friend he somehow deems responsible, shouting at a carriage driver to hurry home, reminiscing of the tender gestures of his father (a particularly great one revolves around his father, knowing his son is obsessed with butterflies, darting into his room, grabbing Nabokov's net without a word and running out to catch and bring back a rare specimen to his son) gives way to a return home where immediately he understands that an apology was offered to his father and all will be okay. There, Nabokov, unable to look at his father, admits to weeping (with the perfect 'I had no handkerchief'). I wept too. And gracefully, gorgeously, Nabokov, whose father is to die ten years in Berlin later shot by fascists, makes sure to explain that this future untimely death in no way alters the loving memory he has of that day. In fact, in the first pages of the book, his father's death is presented subtly with fascinating skill and hints at a grief that Nabokov deems entirely private.
The greatest line of the book: 'But no shadow was cast by the future event upon the bright stairs of our St Petersburg house; the large cool hand resting on my head did not quaver, and several lines of play in a difficult chess composition were not blended yet on the board.'
Chapter 7 - No tears. All smiles. Also previously published as the short story Colette or First Love. A ten year-old Nabokov heads to Biarritz for a family vacation. There, he falls in love for the first with time with a french girl named Colette. The first half of the chapter details the train ride to Biarritz, where Nabokov's lovely recollection of the train details gives way to sublime descriptive prose. The words 'Someone's comfortable cough' while describing the surroundings before sleep will remain with me forever. The second half deals with his chance friendship (with undertones of romance the children are naturally too young to fully grasp) with the french girl. It's fuzzy and all smiles and laughs. His words after she pelts a kiss on his cheek? You little monkey! They hatch an escape plan together, eloping only with a single cold coin and her dog before finally getting caught at a nearby cinema. Nabokov is submitted to a perp walk under his brother's amazed eye. The last paragraph is a stunner for anyone oppressed with the trouble of nostalgia and memory (which I've struggled with as well immensely for not similar but relatable reasons).
The Comedy - Despite all his fame, all his acclaim, one thing that is acknowledged but underrated regarding Nabokov was his humor. It is one of the best things about him. He is ridiculously goofy and funny. One of the 20th century's great comics. He's a total, low-key nut who hides it under his eloquence and patrician manners. His gripes are outrageous. He has an intense philosophical hate for sleep, calling it debasing and a 'moronic fraternity'. A teenaged crush is ruined by her taking part in a dumb dance number, Nabokov deeming the transgression unforgivable. He finally (and solemnly) deduces that a previous tutor is completely insane when he remembers that the tutor became a government official and managed to ship his wife to a gulag, where she died. Another (warmly remembered) tutor is a kind and bumbling fool (similar to Nabokov's greatest fictional creation, the adorable Pnin) who freezes at examinations or when helped to study by Nabokov's father, and who finally speaks when disagreeing with Nabokov's father when the latter gently tells him that he's bound to fail his exam and that he doesn't know a thing. In another tender phrase, this tutor, being of Jewish descent, Nabokov claims not to know what happened to him during the war. Nor does he wish to, remembering the tutor as a decent and pure man. Throughout the book, Nabokov is also superb at turning mundane phrase or moments with a small twist that gets a laugh at the reader.
Soccer Goalkeeping - I was pleasantly surprised to read that Nabokov recognized the greatness of soccer goalkeeping. I did not know he played. I'd have kept playing competitively if I wasn't 5'9 and hadn't also discovered the joys of teenage drinking and party romances. He describes the sentiment and oddness of the position perfectly. For me, goalkeeping is a position that I find even more exciting and impressive than that of the playmaking ten or net-filling nine. I will watch a video of Buffon's save on Zidane's overtime header ('06 World Cup Final) before the latter's Panenka even if I will readily concede that Zidane's gall to do so in a final is one of the 21st century's great sporting moments. Also, as a great treat, wanting to see if Nabokov had written more about goalkeeping, I found this little gem regarding San Jose's very own talented Nabokov, the great Evgeni. Sports of The Times; Two Goalies Named Nabokov (Published 2000). A rookie taking the league by storm, they ask him about Vladimir Nabokov and read him the goalkeeping passage, which Evgeni Nabokov (unaware of who the author is), expands on and relates a bit more to the hockey counterpart.
This is a phenomenal book. But it is to be taken with a bit of a grain of salt. Short of being a fascinating specimen that should have been studied by scientists, one cannot reasonably deduce that Nabokov's extremely vivid details of his childhood can be remembered with such extreme precision. I think it is safe to assume that Nabokov may have amped it up a bit. Also, very little is centered around his wife and child or even his life in Europe post-Russia. I wish I could have read about more of this, although it is obvious that Nabokov wrote this book to remember his very own Russia, which he never returned to after the revolution. The book ends perfectly, the moment before the family is to board a boat to New York. A must read for anyone who is interested in the man, the author and his work. While I think he has his flaws, I must admit, his way of thinking and approaching art (as well as his other obsessions: chess and butterfly chasing) is utterly fascinating and I find myself agreeing with essentially all of it, although I am not as rigid an opponent to the literature of ideas and dicdaticism as he was.
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