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.