Pale Fire, by Vladimir Nabokov. 1.

CONCEPT

Pale Fire

I'm deliberately abbreviating my thoughts here because I want to see if my opinions are altered at class tonight. While I certainly would've enjoyed Tristram Shandy on it's own merits, reading is like religious or Calculus; it's most comprehensible when experienced with others.

So consider this the before shot.

Vladimir Nabokov was one of the best writers in the English language; he combines an encylopedic knowledge of all sorts of things with a knack for forceful and evocative language; his mastery of English and Russian, etc., etc., etc.

You've heard all this and it's all true.

He's also a one-trick pony. He had one plot (granted, it's a great plot) and he cycles it through various permutations in his couple dozen novels and plays. Personally, I find it a little tiring by about the third novel... the crisp acknowledgment of narrative control becomes an announcement, and soon it simply feels like he's solemnly intoning:

"Welcome to V.N., bitch."

But some of these variations are better than others. The Waltz Invention is utterly obnoxious, while Lolita trumps them all. In general, I'd argue that reading Lolita three times spread out over several years is more enjoyable and enlightening than reading three separate Nabokov novels.

All that said, Pale Fire and Invitation to a Beheading are near the top, and can both be fun on their own. Bend Sinister has a wonderful ending.

And in the case of Pale Fire specifically, the conventions employed, the poem and the commentary are more compelling than the actual relationships at play. John Shade's poem can be gutwrenchingly evocative at times (especially in Canto 2), but also seems to parody himself ("freakish clout"), while Kinbote's manifestoes are worthwhile for the conjecture and color of Zemblan intrigue.

It's not a bad book...

It was an enjoyable read...

Despite it's consumption by authorial prerogative (not entirely unrelated to executive prerogative), it keeps its images lovely and powerful...

I just wish that someone with such skill and long legs as Nabokov would've stretched himself further in his lifetime.

I wish he would've taken some risks he wasn't so comfortable with.

END OF POST.