Post for 9/15/13

I have before me a large bedraggled scrapbook, bound in black cloth. It contains old documents, including diplomas, drafts, diaries, identity cards, penciled notes, and some printed matter, which had been in my mother’s meticulous keeping in Prague until her death there, but then, between 1939 and 1961, went through various vicissitudes. With the aid of those papers and my own recollections, I have composed the following short biography of my father (173).

Nabokov does very interesting things with memory in Speak, Memory. That's not a radical claim. But, I think what's particularly interesting about this moment is it's one of the moments in which Nabokov reminds us of the artifice. Speak, Memory is not an autobiography in many senses. It's almost a "these are all the things that happened to me that relate to this (also if this happened too it would be dramatically and symbolically interesting)". What I find interesting, is these moments where Nabokov sort of tells us as readers that it almost seems as though the goal is telling us not to latch onto the facts. This book is not about the facts. Now, I'm not saying that I think the book doesn't have many factually accurate things. What I am, however, saying is that this would be a bad book to read if you wanted to hear how Nabokov's life happened, exactly and accurately (although, it may be possible that this is a failure of the medium). I have the sense that this is one of the moments where Nabokov is reminding us that this is not intended to be read scientifically, and fact checked. I feel that biography (in this context) is almost a word for portrait. Nabokov seems much more interested in understanding what his father was about than the things his father did.

I think this is actually a really great passage with which to see the entire book. The book is filled with these moments, these facts, these specificities. But it's also filled with elements of "composition." In fact, the book is about composing all these moments from his real life. Nabokov is almost in this position that he is both composer and conductor. What I mean by that is that he is neither inventing this work entirely, nor is it just a faithful representation, of it "exactly as it was." And Nabokov is not interested in things "exactly the way they were." He is interested, rather, in telling a good story that is about his life. So things will be made up and fudged occasionally in service of a better story, or a more continuous thematic connection. I think this passage is a great stand in, or rather, a great way to interpret this text through.

Post for 11/7

I think these two chapters were interesting on a number of levels. Firstly, and this is important to Nabokov, they're both self-contained. One could simply read a single chapter, and still be satisfied. Mind you, they would likely want more, considering the quality of Nabokov's prose. But really, I think it's fascinating that these chapters are all self-contained strains of thought. They each seem to have a theme. For instance, chapter five was about Mademoiselle, six about lepidopterology. And really, I think that the whole thing can be explained with Nabokov's famed section at the end of chapter six.

I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip. And the highest enjoyment is timelessness--in a landscape selected at random--is when I stand among rare butterflies and their food plants. This is ecstasy, and behind the ecstasy is something else, which is hard to explain. It is like a momentary vacuum into which rushes all that I love. A sense of oneness with sun and stone. A thrill of gratitude to whom it may concern--to the contrapucltural genius of human fate or to tender ghosts humoring a lucky mortal.

And I think this says a lot about Nabokov in multiple ways. The first, and perhaps the most obvious is this idea of folding the "magic carpet" of his life. He creates connections where they do not exist. And I think that is actually a pretty good way to deal with Nabokov, and a particularly good way to deal with Lolita. It's clear that Humbert's problem is that he tries to create a story, an artifice out of life. However, art and life are not the same. Humbert ends up destroying his life for his dedication to his art. He is so dedicated to superimposing the qualities of a novel onto his life, (i.e. the first paragraph of the story is gorgeous, yes, but also incredibly capital "r" Romantic) that he ends up ignoring the perspective, and humanity of Lolita. This may be a trait Nabokov and Humbert share. I'm not saying they're alike. They're not, but I think this is a point of likeness. However, Nabokov varies by seeing the humanity in others, where we have little proof that Humbert does.

The second is the idea of timelessness that Nabokov discusses. Rather than transcending death with art, he believes he transcends death in his greatest moments of life. I rather like that. Perhaps I'm projecting my own beliefs into this moment, but I really believe that's what Nabokov is saying here.

Post for 11/5

I'm finding Speak, Memory to be massively enjoyable. I think there's something wonderful that Nabokov is tapping into with this text, and that's the perception of reality. People find reality to be sacred. I do not, and (more relevantly) Nabokov does not either. The book is filled with wonderful, often absurd details about Nabokov, his family, and his history. At moments, they are actually quite funny. I think about The Agony and Ecstasy of Steve Jobs, a play that took many people by storm. The story (which is, at no point claimed to be entirely fiction or non-fiction) contains a section in which the protagonist goes to China, and finds that factory workers have been blacklisted for speaking up, and essentially, that the workers in factories like FoxConn are treated horribly. So the play is essentially this person telling this story. The story turned out to not be "true" (whatever the heck that means). There was a whole scandal. People were furious, and the author was dsiclaimed of his work because he hadn't "actually" gone to the factories and seen these things. This meant that many of the details were (likely) made up. I didn't really understand the controversy, and I wasn't surprised by the supposed lack of "truth" in the piece. I had gone to the theater to see a work of art. Peoples' mere subjectivities will bring us away from the facts. Furthermore, the goal of the piece seemed to me, not really to be about whether or not these things actually happened or not.

Nabokov really plays with this in Speak, Memory. Nabokov's uses of lists becomes much more interesting in this setting than it was in Lolita. Take, for instance, Chapter Three of Speak, Memory. The whole chapter is a sort of half-realistic (the boringness of the coat of arms) half absurd (the uncle who nearly died in a bomb and nearly got on the Titanic) catalog of ships. Lists seem tangible. Lists make things seem real. People are very easily convinced by math and science, no matter how phony it is. These lists play into the very idea that science and math only exist in "reality." It's the boring, unnecessary details that give a thing realism. Nabokov is not so simplistic as to simply just add a bunch of details for realism. Nabokov really stands in between fiction and non-fiction, and writes a book that very much deals with elements of reality, but fudges the details to make them more dramatically interesting. The truth is, for Nabokov, reality is fascinating in its intricate detail, but dramatically uninteresting in its nature.

Post for 10/29

This scene is a re-write of Charlotte's finding of Humbert's writings.

Mystery, that's all those Europeans are, is mystery. He won't let me in. I will let myself in. I want to see what's in that big European head of his. Hum called them locked up love letters. I know better. I know better. He starts sweating when he lies. He's not a very good liar. He always ends his lies with the twinge of a smile. It's as though he thinks he got away with it. He must have some self-doubt. He must believe on some fundamental level that he's a good liar. Well, if not on a fundamental level, then at least on some level. He's a horrible liar. You'd think a European, you'd think he'd be more intelligent, more cultured. Maybe he is. Maybe he's writing about his cultured things. Maybe he's writing in French. Ah! There's the key. Okay, and now to open the table. Papers. Okay. Oh my god. "The Haze woman. The fat old Haze woman." I'm furious. I can't imagine. Why on earth would he write this? Jesus. He's in love with Lo. No, this isn't love. This is something else. Oh, my. He comes in, with his wheezing breath. I turn to him, and I yell.

"The Haze woman, the big bitch, the old cat, the obnoxious mamma, the--the old stupid Haze is no longer your dupe. She has--she has had enough. I've had enough of you, I've had enough of your lies! I've had enough of Dolores, that insufferable little girl you say you're in love with. I know it's not love. It can't be love. I know things are different in Europe, but this is America. We don't let our fathers touch their daughters! I won’t let you near her again, you big brute!"

"My dear," he says, “come here, and we’ll talk about it.”

“You’re a monster. You’re a detestable, abominable, criminal fraud. If you come near—I’ll scream out the window. Get back!” He tries to come near me. As if one of his disgusting sloppy kisses would change things.

“You’re the monster,” he mutters. I pretend not to hear.

“I am leaving tonight. This is all yours. Only you’ll never never see that miserable brat again.” He left, and I place a call to Leslie Tomson.

“Leslie, could you please call my home and tell my husband that I’m dead?”

“Who is this?”

“Charlotte Haze.”

“Oh. Yes. I suppose I can.”

“Thank you, goodbye.” I hang up, and open the sideboard. There is a replica of me. If Humbert can make up his Quilty, then I can have a wax replica. I run into the street, stand her up, and run, with my bag. Someone will hit her soon enough.

Post for 10/24

Danielle and I have been collaboratively assigned Nabokov's poem "The Ballad of Longwood Glen" as signifying something about Nabokov's themes, and narrative quirks, in reflecting Lolita. The poem is typically Nabokovian in a number of ways.

First, and most obviously, is the reflection (and parody) of folk tales. The piece is about a father who (never having climbed a tree) goes into the tree, to find a ball in a tree, never to return. This is fantastical in the same way a fairy tale, and almost seems like a cautionary tale without a moral, or an invocation of caution in its audience. This isn't much unlike Lolita in the sense that Humbert loves fairy tales, (as messed up as they are) and in fact, is constantly creating "real life" (whatever that means in this book) parallels between his life and fairy tales.

Secondly, is the fun Nabokov has creating a puzzle for his readers. The poem seems, to me, really to be a poetic reflection of his statement that good art places not characters against one another, but rather the author against the reader. In this reading, Art, (you see what I'm saying?) is symbolic of Art, and the people at the bottom of the tree try to analyze, try to unpack, and try to understand where Art went, but are unable to. Art places itself against the reader, and hides itself. Lolita is a sparring match. It's wonderful, though difficult and elusive. Not only is Humbert Humbert's reliability completely questionable, but the whole story forces you to either (in my opinion) misread him, or you are forced to have complicated feelings about him. And like Joyce's Ulysses, there are no arguments that hold up, unchallenged. Nabokov has the humanity, or rather, the understanding of the complexity of humanity that reflects Humbert Humbert, not as an archetype, but rather, as a person.

Thirdly, the piece is very clearly structured, and the aesthetics, and the "rules" of the game are very clear. The poem is written in AA BB CC format. This is, perhaps, a variation from Lolita in a certain way. Part of the fun of Lolita, is that it's a game we don't know the rules to. But, the way the poem and Lolita are connected, is through the fact that there are very much rules that are tightly followed by the author. I think about Nabokov's insistence that he is in control of his novels. He is in control of his writing, micromanaging, and being hyper selective with every word.

There are a number of other small details that are typically Nabokovian, (the doppelgänger names of Paul and Pauline, the judgemental narrator, the importance of names, the use of epic language, the frequent appearance of cars) that are more nitty-gritty, and perhaps less interesting for the greater picture of understanding Nabokov as an author and elusive figure overall.

Post for 10/22

I really liked the Winston article we had to read for Tuesday's class. It is interested, as I am, in the intersection between humanity and the fictionality of the story. However, the element I hadn't really considered, is the way Humbert fetishizes and tries to imitate fiction. I had thought about it more in terms of "lying" and "truth." But Humbert's problem is that he can't separate fact from fiction, right? Right. He can't separate fact from fiction, because he won't let himself accept the harsh realities. Instead, he tries to fictionalize his life to make things better than they were. I had always seen this as connecting to others. I had never really thought of Humbert's lying as (possibly) being entirely self-serving. I suppose, for all my rhetoric of "understanding others complexly" I was just thinking of Humbert as so uncomplicatedly bad, that I suppose I didn't consider that he really may be telling the story (and occasionally not telling the truth) really for himself. Almost telling the story as an act of repenting. And in fact, the final bit really comes close to that idea. The truth is that if we can agree that Humbert Humbert can't keep fact from fiction (not a particularly daring thesis) than it would be obvious to me that Humbert is telling the story to seek a redemption.

Humbert Humbert cannot separate fact from fiction. This is his fatal flaw. He wants everything to be perfect. He wants everything to fit in the neat, beauty of prose. Life, however, resists narrative structure, and this is Humbert Humbert's problem. He is trying to put the messiness, and complication of life into the simplicity of fiction. It doesn't work. It won't work. And that's the problem with his framework of thought. Not at all unlike cinderella's sisters, he tries to cut the heels off reality to make his reality fit into the shoe of fiction, or of prose. However, by doing this he ignores the complexity of life. Of his, less, but more importantly of Lolita's. He's so set on making everything perfect, and fable-like, that he's ignoring the reality of the situation. He doesn't realize how he's destroying Lolita's life, because he refuses to see the messiness, and contradictions of her personhood, due to his desire, or incapability to see the world outside the frame of a traditional narrative. Relevantly, Winston says here, "Humbert's solipsistic imagination refuses to acknowledge the individuality of the girls he loves or to allow them freedom to shape their own lives" (424).  This is so much what I'm trying to say. Humbert is telling us his story, not his life. Whether or not he can tell the difference is a different story.

Post for 10/17

I'm still dealing with and unpacking the Roth. (In a sidenote, I loved that Roth couldn't tell that John Ray Jr. wasn't a "real" editor." I find the fictionality of that character so absolutely paramount to this book. I wonder how Roth would react upon realizing the falsehood of the character.) I really like Roth's conceptions of reality, fiction, and the way Nabokov blurs the boundaries of both. I think, if we follow Roth's idea, (or perhaps it was Appel's) that the characters  that the most virtuous characters are the ones who are able to balance the the "real" as well as the "fictional" worlds. Roth goes on to discuss (rightly so,) that Humbert Humbert is completely incapable of balancing these two. This ends up destroying him. What I think is sort of interesting about this, is that this makes Lolita a tragedy, in a fairly traditional sense. Humbert Humbert, incapable of both keeping track of reality or fiction, is fatally flawed. Humbert can't remember or understand the difference between a reality or fiction. So, what makes that interesting, is the idea that Humbert may be honest, and also not accurately tell the story.  This slips into the idea of the subjectivity of truth. I just read "Six Characters in Search of an Author" for another class, and I have since been thinking about the way the two works deal with "reality" by creating a "real" infrastructure around the story. I think about the idea of the difference between Truth and truth. Facts vs. truth. I don't really have the feeling that Humbert intentionally lies very much, because I think he does not have the appropriate grip on what is and is not real, what is right and what is wrong. I don't know. It's all so complicated, and difficult. I keep trying to work and re-work these ideas, and they so often don't follow through.

More than the how, which Roth goes rather deeply into, I'm more interested in the why. What is the point? Why does Nabokov play with reality and fiction? What should Humbert's inability to sort reality from fiction say about us as people? Is Nabokov just playing a game to say that the best way to go about things is to be able to neatly separate "reality" from "fiction"? What a horribly secular thing to think. What a horribly separatist thing that is to say. If we can agree that Humbert Humbert is being honest, despite how often he lies, than wouldn't it be fair to say that we are all full of massive subjectivities, and that Nabokov is trying to say that we should both keep our realities in place, as well as acknowledging our own fictions, and the realities and fictions of others? I don't know if that question made any sense.

Post for 10/15/13

What's the use of commenting on the fictionality of a story? It's not new. What does it do? It plays with the boundaries of storytelling. But what is the point of that? Is it just another game to play, or is there a reason we're playing? I keep coming back to this, as I consider and re-consider Nabokov and Joyce. Joyce does a lot of play on the fictionality of the story. Is it just a reminder? By the way, this is all made up. Is it a comfort? Don't worry, this is all made up. Is it a claim of virtuosity? "I'm so great, this is all made up." Is it a disclaimer? Don't blame me, this is all made up. Maybe it's a bit of all of these things. I think about the way authors lives are used to invalidate their fictions. In that way, Nabokov is constantly claiming that this story is made up, and that it's not him. It's not his life. I have a hard time buying that as the idea. I don't know. I think about the importance of fiction. About the importance of made up stories. I think stories are important because they allow us to see something, or somebody we normally might not see. Now, this is sort of complicated by the fact that a great deal of fiction is about just the opposite. It tries to create intentionally hollowed-out characters, so that people will see themselves in the work they're reading. Does this mean that the importance of made up stories is not in connecting to others, or does it mean that different fictions have different purposes?  I have so many questions. I keep wondering about why we care so much about fiction. Maybe fiction is about both identifying and welcoming the other. Well no, I don't like that definition because it excludes the possibility to appreciate a story that one does not see a piece of themselves in. But at the same time, aren't those the stories we like most? Stories that reflect certain parts of us, or our likes, and deflect others? The stories I like, even if I don't agree with them per se, have elements I agree with. Is a complete inversion automatically unlikeable? If I see something that is completely opposite of me, in my personality, and in my literary preferences, is that reason enough to dislike a story? I don't know. Hm.

Post for 9/8/13

I have figured out what I would like to write about. I had been seeking some intersection between Nabokov's commentary on the artificiality of the novel, as well as his discussion of the way we reduce people to images or labels. Well, fortunately, I've found a way I think I can do that. Humbert Humbert, has many pleas to his audience. Some of which are "my learned reader" some of which are "ladies and gentlemen of the jury" etc. What I think is fascinating is the way (I find) humanity and artificiality come together in these invocations. For instance, when Humbert Humbert says "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury--I wept" (103). This moment is fascinating because Humbert Humbert is asking us to see him as an image. He wants us to see him as the image of a weeping man, a man who weeps. Humbert Humbert, in this fascinating moment (amongst others) makes an appeal based on an image, or a stereotype we have in our minds. It doesn't matter whether or not he is lying, he is trying to use these tropes, these images, to show us that he is not a monster, and that he hurts, and feels too. What I personally love so much about this is that we know better. Humbert Humbert presents us with an image of himself, but we are very aware that it is a false image. Nabokov, in this way, forces his reader to stop and say "Hey, you're not this two dimensional." Constantly, throughout the text, there are appeals, calls to the humanity of the reader. What is (in my opinion) so interesting, is the fact that Nabokov and Humbert Humbert deal with the question differently. For Nabokov, the text at large is a motion of humanization.

In the one axis of intersection is the breaking of fiction. This happens throughout the book in about a million different ways (Nabokov's range of ways to break or tinker with the artificiality of fiction are quite vast.) However, I particularly like the "ladies and gentlemen of the jury" because it addresses an audience that is both fictional and real. Humbert Humbert is aware that whoever reads this book (his book) is going to try to make a judgement call about him, or is going to decide upon the morality of his actions. This is what he means when he says "of the jury." He is aware that we are going to judge him for his behavior. So, he makes several appeals, to this reader, who will, after all, judge him. After all, it is his humanity and moral indiscretion that the book deals with. However, it isn't clear who he is making that appeal to. On the one hand, I think that we are the readers. We, in the nonfictional, tangible world, are the readers. And we aren't not the readers. I know that probably sounds silly, but it's not that I'm trying to deny our reading of the book. I am, however trying to say, that he is appealing to both an imaginary reader (one who exists in the same external (external meaning outside Humbert Humbert's) world) and a "real one" (you, Tess, Kayla, Danielle, or anyone else holding Nabokov's book.) I suppose that's a better way of categorizing. There are a set of imaginary people reading Humbert Humbert's book, and a set of "real" people reading Nabokov's book.  It's not clear which (if any) of these groups Humbert is crying out to. I find that fascinating.

Post for 10/3/13

I would like to focus my attention in Lolita to the fictionality of the story, as my thesis for the class. I'm interested in the way Nabokov breaks the realism of the story with interruptions of all sorts. The book has an incredible self-awareness. But not only does the book have great self-awareness, but the characters also seem to know they're in a story. (Lolita's 'you sound like a book' comes to mind.) Nabokov is constantly breaking from what is expected of him. He breaks radically from the realist tradition. But what's fascinating about his break with realism is that it's (in many ways) more radical a break from realism than a movement like surrealism, or a fantastic tale is. Surrealism, for instance, places itself in a way that's nearly antithetical to realism. The game is (partially) based on breaking the rules of reality. In that way, surrealism becomes reliant on realism as a foil. Nabokov's reality is much more threatening to realism, because it doesn't seem to regard the rules. It's not an inversion of realism, but it's also definitely not a support of realism. It's an odd third thing. Being that it doesn't play by the rules, but is also not simply reversing them, Nabokov says that the rules of realism are meaningless. This is, clearly much more threatening than surrealism, because surrealism's dependence on realism still validates the existence of realism, where Nabokov's abrealism (normal/abnormal, realism/abrealism) doesn't rely on the rules of anyone else's games. Ambiguity is always threatening in a world of extremes.

But I'm also fascinated in Nabokov's interest in seeing others complexly. The book is absolutely racked with the dichotomy between image and reality. One of the central themes of the book, in my opinion, or rather, is Nabokov's discussion of how quickly we write people off by their labels. It's true, it's an incredibly American thing to do. (My mother always goes off on these rants about how obsessed America is with ways of categorizing, labeling, and dehumanizing people. She is Italian, and didn't grow up hearing ridiculous terms like "baby boomer" and "middle child syndrome.") By labeling these personalities, we reduce people to words, to ideas, and thus to one dimension. It is not as though Nabokov is merely resistant to this idea. The weight of this very story relies upon a reader with humanity to see and understand Humbert Humbert. Not because he's a good person, deserves redemption, or anything else. But rather, because he's a person. He deserves the three dimensions of portrayal others get. (Well, some others get.) Deep within this story is an absolutely massive amount of humanity. Nabokov asks us not only to be good readers, but he also asks us to be good people. We should try to understand and listen to Humbert Humbert because he's fascinating. He's complicated, horrible, brilliant, and full of the inconsistencies in personality that make us human.

There must be a way these two intersect. I will find it. Once I can find it, that is the thing I want to write about.

Post for 9/31/13

I cannot stop thinking about how little Nabokov is interested in pursuing realism. Well, maybe that's not the right way of putting it. The plausibility of the story isn't complete chance. In fact, (at least so far) while absolutely horrifying and improbable, many of the things Humber Humbert has described happening, or described himself doing, are very well possible. Perhaps it'd be better to say that Nabokov doesn't value realism. No, that's not it either. Nabokov certainly values people, portraying people with humanity. Nabokov doesn't let facts get in the way of the truth. He wants to make sure you know that what he is writing is fiction. This book is championing fiction. Championing the very idea of made up stories. By including nonsensical passages, Nabokov pokes holes in the artifice of reality we suspend our disbelief for, and reminds us that this story is made up. I think that's wonderful. Why? Because we, as a society, are constantly trying to undermine fiction. We're trying to undermine the idea that stories are made up, but also that stories can be made up. We are always using both psychology and the arrogance of the present to say that stories are not creations. We say that they are mere composites of the author's personality, of of somebody else's ideas. Now, I'm not trying to knock that. I don't think we should be frowning on that to begin with. Originality does not inherently make a piece of writing more interesting. However, We should also stop attributing fiction to reality, because it makes fiction less impressive. Writing fiction, good fiction mind you, is enormously difficult. It's infuriating to have readers that are interested in  how authors create their works (read: how a magician pulls off his trick), as well as readers that judge the quality of a work on how much it mirrors reality. In my workshops, I am frequently reading stories that include details that, while certainly imitating reality, don't contribute to the themes, the plot, or the questions the piece is asking at large. It's realism for realism's sake. What Nabokov is saying is that realism is not worth the worship we give it. Fiction, and made up stories can be wonderful, important, and filled with just as much madness and (capital T) Truth as any other story can be.

Post for 9/26/13

Another odd thing about this book is capitalization. Nabokov capitalizes the first letter of many words. However, try always seem to be grammatically correct, or big overarching ideas. For instance, on page 105 (I know this was in Tuesday's reading) he writes, "Instead of basking in the beams of smiling Chance, I was obsessed by all sorts of purely ethical doubts and fears." It's a rather funny thing to do. Not only funny in the sense that it is strange, or out of the norm, but also because it is properly funny. It's great to see Nabokov point and laugh at themes in his book. While there are most definitely a number of (fascinating) themes in Lolita, Nabokov doesn't like being flashy about them. In fact, in my opinion, Nabokov uses these capitalizations to almost underline this idea of "could you imagine if I was this bad of a writer?" So he beats you over the head with these words that are part of larger symbolic, intellectual frameworks, to laugh at how ridiculous of a practice he finds that to be. Nabokov, very obviously I might add, has his fun in games of hiding his motifs, and making them seem offhandedly and unimportant. 

Post for 9/24/13

There are several constantly shifting items in Lolita. Furthermore, frequency of their variation accellerates as the novel goes on. The first of these, is the way Nabokov breaks the fourth wall. Most frequently, Humbert Humbert calls the reader the "Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury," which leads us to believe that the book is either a sort of legal invocation of the judgers. But then, this isn't the only way he refers to the reader. Sometimes he refers to the reader as "the reader" or "my dear readers", which has its own implications. He knows, or at least feels, that this work is going to be read. And he plays the game of the writer self consciously. This is really interesting, perhaps because the terms Humbert Humbert has used to address the reader thus far, this is the only one that in itself comments on the artificiality of fiction. The final one of these I can think of is when Humbert Humbert calls the readere "folks." It's massively out of character. there are two instances. Both on page 87. The first: "But d'ye know, folks--I just could not make myself do it!" The second: "And folks, I just couldn't!" This is totally fascinating. At once, we are faced with a completely overt moment. The moment is so deeply performative, it seems like it would be on a television show. This isn't just an acknowledgement of the reader. This is way more complicated. Because if it's true that this invocation is a performative one, (it seems like a very plausible thesis to me) then we must consider the performativity of the whole piece. Nabokov does this a lot. And this is part of his mastery. He introduces an single, speck of a different idea that forces us to re-evaluate the "normality." Nabokov, then drops very, very, very many of these absolutely minuscule references, that force us to think, "If this is a part of the playing field, I need to re-map my conceptions of the story, and the narrator based on this new information. And this information, in particular, shows Humbert Humbert as a showman. Not only does that completely invalidate all this idea of him being a subtle, quiet, gentlemanly figure, but it also makes us think about our own stake in the story. Are we primarily here (in the story) as readers? As audience members, waiting to be entertained? As people here to judge the morality or immorality of Nabokov and Humbert Humbert? Is Humbert Humbert telling his story to be heard out, or is he doing it to put on a show? If he's doing it to put on a show, what does that say about his truthfulness? Does he value truth over showmanship? The best storytellers often disregard truth. What is Humbert Humbert's place in all of this? What is our place in this? Do we believe him? Sure, he has an absolutely unforgivable desire to rape a twelve year old, but does that mean he would lie to us? The reason for him telling the story is integral to how we are to interpret his actions, and the things he says. What are we to do with all this massive uncertainty?

AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Post for 9/19/13

I'm becoming more and more interested in the way Nabokov mixes things. For instance, there's quite a bit of French in the novel. This begs the question, (at least in my mind,) does Humbert Humbert identify more closely with French or English? The presence of the French must make us interrogate the use of English. He is half English and half Swiss/Austrian/French. The fact that Humbert Humbert includes passages in French makes us think about the fact that the rest is in English. Did America get to him, or was he always natively English speaking? If English wasn't always his primary language, (this seems possible) when did that change? Nabokov, in a number of instances forces us to consider something by creating its opposite. Throughout the novel (thus far) there are a number of contradictory pieces. The contradictory pieces end up being each others lights and shadows, forcing us to question what is going on.

Another way this manifests itself is through the third person bits. There are occasionally pieces in the third person. It comes out of nowhere, and doesn't quite seem to be a thematic choice. The pieces in the third person don't have much in common other than being in the third person. However, again, the nature of the third person makes us think about the first person and vice versa. Nabokov, then, makes sure we're uncomfortable, always unseating us. We always have to stay on our toes. Nabokov makes us think about the funcion of the first person. It totally works. Nabokov has written a story in which we are constantly grappling with the content, and the first person obfuscates the reader, and forces them to deal with their conceptions of the author. Nabokov forces you to create your own distance between the author and the narrator. I love that. Nabokov, who hated these connections, has creates a story that plays with your sense of authorship, and forces you to evaluate Nabokov's place within the picture.

Post for 9/17/13

Frankly, I find autobiographical material to be absolutely insufferable. I just thinking about Nabokov,  because he wants us to not look to treat the work as an entire entity of its own. In that way, I think it's interesting to interpret Nabokov's works, independently of one another. But I'm completely against this idea of looking at his work as a single body, rather than as individual works. I think it's primarily because, I feel like that undermines fiction. To me, it goes against the very idea of made-up stories, and the idea that stories can really be invented. Last semester I took a course on James Joyce's Ulysses, we did a lot of this biographical stuff. Honestly, I find it unbearable. But I find it unbearable for two reasons: first, being this idea that stories should be invented, should be given the credit of being invented. The second reason being that works should be treated as individual work, and not valued based on their relationship to imagined contexts. Thirdly, perhaps most interestingly, Nabokov, and Joyce amongst others, are really against this type of reading. This is worse things get tricky though. And also, where they get fun. Because, although it is true that the bulk of the Joyce don't want us to bring the authors life into the texts, they both also seem to be of the idea that their own interpretations are not the final ones. While I realize what that implies, does that mean that we shouldn't take their opinions into consideration at all? If the author is only a vehicle for the work, and the author does not have the final say on the meanings of the work, does that mean that they should have no say? I don't know. I don't know if I think that an author should comment on their own work. Theoretically, the comments are already in the work. Then moving forward, the role of the reader to interpret and comment.

And what is our fascination with authors? Is it the conception that we are so amazed that they make up the stories that we look for true life within them? Baffled to the point of disbelief, perhaps? Or is it something else? Maybe, it's this idea that we are so in love with the author for creating the work, that we want to know more about what created this beautiful thing. Really, what is the fun of that? Say, for instance, you read an incredible novel. You later go on to read about the authors life, and find, but the story mirror some experiences or happenings within the authors life. Doesn't the magic sort of disappear? The ephemerality and imagination involved in your reading of it prior to knowing about the author is gone. It's like seeing the film before you read the book. You will always see the actors playing those characters when you read the book.

Lastly, what this method does, is that it imagines writing as a non-empathic experience. And perhaps, that's what infuriates me the most. This idea, that a writer can't write out of a desire to connect. That a writer must be creating from their own lives. Empathy is always on my mind, because I realize this world is full of massive differences. And I find empathy, to be the best way of dealing with these differences. Biographical readings then, posit that writers will be creating only out of a desire to represent themselves, rather than out of a desire to connect with others.

Post for 9/12/13

I'm still reveling in The Enchanter. Nabokov is such a masterful writer, and with such massive restraint. Furthermore, Nabokov is completely steeped in his ideology as a writer. He practices what he preaches, which I realize is partly so impressive to me because my taste and my capabilities as a writer are not on the same plane yet. Anyway, I think Nabokov's ability to morally remove himself from the text is fascinating. Nabokov does like messing with his reader though. I think about the way the story is told, which is some odd mix between a (slightly partial) omniscient third person, free indirect discourse, and first person. Nabokov, in this way, plays a game of cat and mouse with the reader. He plays games with your views of him as an author, and of his authorial presence (or lack thereof.) On the one hand, his use of these narrative standpoints would suggest sympathy, or a sense that the author is trying to make a case for the protagonist. However, Nabokov (and his writing) is more complicated than that. What's fascinating is that the text never endorses the character. Even within the monologue and the free indirect discourse, there's never a sense that the protagonist is doing the right thing. That said, the piece does nothing to condemn him. The blank style that Nabokov takes on, then, has an interesting relationship with the narrative perspective he takes. He could, if he so chose, write the piece in a cold, journalistic tone and style. It would certainly fit the amorality of the narrative. However, Nabokov does (in a moment not unlike Odysseus' throwing the spear into Polyphemus' eye) not use a dry or cold tone. In fact, he uses a tone that, as I previously stated, would encourage sympathy, or the idea of sympathy. The pride, mastery and skill in that gesture is completely off the charts, but it should be noted that he definitely pulls it off.

The other thing that's fascinating about the way The Enchanter is told is the ending. The ending both punishes and doesn't punish the protagonist. The way the ending comes through, it almost seems as though Nabokov had no say in it. It's not like Macbeth, where it's very clear that the protagonist does something bad, or wrong, and is thus punished for it. Rather, while the text shows indifference to the protagonist, the society within the novel does not. In that way, I suppose it's strange to have a story, (particularly one that's so morally charged) where the author is not present in the characters nor in the society. The text doesn't give a sense that when the protagonist is caught, that Nabokov is saying "take that, perv!" Rather, it's almost just like, "Well, that happened."

Post for 9/10/13

I loved The Enchanter. It's possibly the most horrifying thing I've read, but I'm already liking Nabokov quite a bit. More than anything, I love Nabokov's capacity for metaphor. I particularly liked this passage on page 15. He writes,

"You lost the hands of your watch," said the girl.
"No, he answered, clearing his throat, "that's the way it's supposed to be. It's a rarity."

It's a simple moment. It's not a moment of severe import, in plot or emotion. However, it's incredible, because more than anything, it requires an incredible amount of control, and knowledge of what you're writing. When Nabokov talks about the absurdity that people get carried away with their own stories, we see it really in application here. In three sentences, Nabokov summarizes the entire story. The outside world, as symbolized by the girl, notes to the man that he doesn't have a proper sense of time. The outside world shows discomfort with this idea, as we all would. He, however, replies that his lack of a structural understanding of time is "the way it's supposed to be. It's a rarity." Nabokov's ability to know and control his story well enough to capture the entire universe of The Enchanter within such a minute detail is incredible.

Furthermore, Nabokov's restraint shows itself here too. His writing has such a masterful sense of restraint. To write a story about such a morally charged subject without spending the entire time editorializing is incredible. To go back to this moment that I was just discussing, this is another great example of that restraint. The entire interaction ends there. Whatever would have come next would have been an editorial comment of some sort. She would have either commented on how it was good or bad that the man's watch had no hands, or he would have said too much about it, and it would be beating the point into the reader. In this way, however, Nabokov is always taking a chance. The chance he's always taking is that you are going to be smart enough to figure it out on your own. By not passing over the same motifs and ideas a number of times, he is really putting his work in the hands of the reader. The reader, is then forced to figure it out for themself.

Lastly, and most importantly perhaps, is Nabokov's ability to portray characters complexly. Nabokov doesn't deny the humanity of the lead character. He doesn't portray him two-dimensionally. While it's clear to us that the character is a villain, the text doesn't really care to acknowledge that. It's both fascinating and relieving to see a story told with a character who is certainly morally appalling, who is neither redeemed nor spurned within the text. Often times, we see these stories of villains, or "bad people" and they are given a horrible, invalidating life story. For instance, a character will try to take over the world, and we find out it's because he was an orphan. The truth is that writing like that invalidates both the narrative of the villain, and not treating him like a whole character, or whole person, but it also invalidates the narratives of orphans, and people who have had rough upbringings. Rough upbringings cannot be the reason everyone is evil. Nabokov understands this. I love that. It forces us to understand and connect to people who our entire society is built upon invalidating. Nabokov in this way creates a framework of thought for dealing with "the other." His making the protagonist so morally appalling only further proves and enforces his point of trying to deal with, or at least try to understand the complexity of narratives of the people we disagree with.

Post for 8/29

I really enjoyed these readings. More than anything, I loved Nabokov's writing about writers and readers. For instance, I love this passage:

There are, however, at least two varieties of imagination in the reader’s case. So let us see which one of the two is the right one to use in reading a book. First, there is the comparatively lowly kind which turns for support to the simple emotions and is of a definitely personal nature. (There are various subvarieties here, in this first section of emotional reading.) A situation in a book is intensely felt because it reminds us of something that happened to us or to someone we know or knew. Or, again, a reader treasures a book mainly because it evokes a country, a landscape, a mode of living which he nostalgically recalls as part of his own past. Or, and this is the worst thing a reader can do, he identifies himself with a character in the book. This lowly variety is not the kind of imagination I would like readers to use.

More than anything, I love that idea of identification. I find myself so frustrated of hearing people don't like books because they can't identify with the characters. It's not only lazy from the perspective of the reader, but also lazy from the perspective as a person. If you can't engage with a radical empathy, and try to understand things from a different point of view, what's the point of reading? Well, perhaps for the entertainment of being taken elsewhere. Nabokov understands that. I like that Nabokov, in that way makes this statement about what we connect to, and how frequently we as readers, don't try to radically exit our zone of comfort, but rather seek out things that are either identifiable within ourselves, or things that pertain to our pasts.

Furthermore, in that same piece, Nabokov discusses this idea that fiction is fiction. For instance, Nabokov writes: "To call a story a true story is an insult both to art and truth." I really like that, because as a person, and as a writer, I'm sick of people who claim writers are just writing their own life experiences. As Nabokov notes, saying that undermines the very nature of both fiction and reality. (Although, the primary bit of the insult is not to reality.)

I also wanted to make a small point about the interview (which I, for the most part, did not like.) The interviewer was incredibly annoying. He kept asking these questions that were so disrespectful, and also, so uninteresting of Nabokov as a person, and as a writer. More than anything, it connects back to what Nabokov was saying about the nature of fiction, and not undermining fiction based on any reality. "We should always remember that the work of art is invariably the creation of a new world, so that the first  thing we should do is to study the new world as closely as possible, approaching it as something brand new, having no obvious connection with the worlds we already know." The interviewer, kept disrespecting this idea, and kept looking for keys in. I suppose that is the role of a journalist in this situation, though. Nabokov though, was perfectly on point. He was not off the cuff, and in fact, there weren't any great reveals. I understand him more as a figure, but not much more as a writer, and I respect that quite a bit.