27/01 – 01/02 – Pale Fire, Nabakov

20/01 – 26/01 – Pale Fire, Nabakov

It’s genius, like all Nabakov—and perhaps just a touch too genius; just a touch too smart and funny and wild and wholely him. And so I can’t really speak to it. This slides off me like soapy water: like the pulling-back of some veneer that leaves us actually wholly naked and yet somehow invulnerable? Like that there might actually be a pristine layer underneath all of this after all, but it’s just that we cannot imagine it.

I can’t imagine Nabakov finding anyone’s conversations interesting. He’d pretty much always know where we were going next. The turn of phrase we’d seek to rely on; the latent insecurity that reveals itself despite attempted deception. Like playing chess against a child. A stupid one. Perhaps he’d find some merriment in it. Like the older brother leading the gang of young children down the country path, he’d pretend not to be enjoying our company. I could see that for him.

And in any case, what is it even all about anyway? Does he like Russia? Does he hate the States? Is he parodying the European nobility? Or chastising himself for being their literary amuse-bouche? Nabakov’s relationship with the postmodern is typically antithetical—Nabokovian, even—but I don’t mind that. After all, it suits him well.