Nine bedraggled Russian expats struggled out of a deep slumber to consider the colors and tones of a by-gone childhood. A tenth arrived and they all boarded the late train to Biarritz. They jostled and pushed their way to the train window and observed these thin wires, rising and falling, in passing:
Rob E: I loved the discussion; I learned a lot. I appreciated the insights, and I also share the sentiments expressed: some chapters were not interesting to me. Nabokov has quite the mind. B
I'm still glad I picked the book, even though I didn't rate it highly. I liked the analogy of how people react to art and literature in similar, but different ways. I don't feel like it was another Bluefeather Fellini shame sandwich for me. It was very interesting to hear everyone's take on the book -- and enlightening.
Mike: Thanks for choosing this book. I have begun to read it several times before, with a severe lack of self-discipline, but I always remember one of the great opening lines in the English language: "The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness."
Charlie mentioned that paintings can be abstract, they don't have to show a subject, but books should tell a story. I submit some writers are a hybrid of poetry and prose creators: they paint with words, they do things with language that affect you, that get a reaction from your soul. Conrad, McCarthy, Nabokov have such power with the English language. Jonathan Yardley says Speak, Memory can be picked up and read at random to provide this pleasure, this language painting. Yet I will admit I wish Chapter 3 had been painted over, or provided as primer in an Appendix. A-
Tom: I will append Yardley's comments, except he said he had no idea how many times he had read Speak, Memory. I have read it three times. A.
Dick J: It's time to bring down the average grade. I did not enjoy it and I would not recommend it. C
Ken: I was frustrated by there being no translation, plus overall it was tedious, boring. B-
"They accused me of not conforming to my surroundings; of "showing off" (mainly by peppering my Russian papers with English and French terms, which came naturally to me); ..."
Chapter Nine, page 185.
Charlie: I am negative too. B-, borderline C. Boring, arrogant, although the last 50 pages of the book were good. I wish I had never read two-thirds of it.
Keith: A staccato; Nabokov is the Beethoven of writers; he used many pencils with no erasers. He spent 50 years in exile from surrealistic imagery. Too much family; I would have enjoyed more philosophy. Samples he provided: "Enjoy life - but not too much." "One is always at home in one's past." [this drove me to many bottles of wine]. "Sleep is moronic, a nightly betrayal of genius."
I suggest get rid of the other 98% of the book, as this could be a great 50 page book. This book is a dismal failure; memory is closest to a fixed star in a rude world.
I enjoyed (50 pages): B-
Bob Woods: I have been a Nabokov fan ever since Pale Fire; beyond that, not much in English is available. I found it very interesting and give it an A
Bob Simon: I found the flashbacks disconcerting. I would never recommend this book, and I would never read it again. B-
Karl: Much to my surprise, I enjoyed the book. I took it as a collection of essays, which gave me a satisfying frame of reference: A-
This Nabokov guy can write!
Normally, I have little interest in biographies, especially autobiographies. This book being touted as the latter didn’t exactly engender much enthusiasm in me to read it. Not reading it would have been a mistake though, as I enjoyed it very much. Classifying Speak, Memory as an autobiography is, I believe, a bit of a mischaracterization. It’s really a collection of snapshots from the first 40 or so years of the author’s life.
In that regard, the book is very effective – up to a point -- in showing the reader what youth and education was like for Nabokov. That he started out “privileged” is an understatement. That he subsequently endured a series of tragedies – the loss of his family’s wealth and status, exile, the assassination of his father, the starvation death of his brother in a concentration camp – didn’t seem to have affected him nearly as much as the lack of closure from his relationships with, first Colette, then Mademoiselle O, finally with Tamara. But who knows? Maybe he just downplayed their impact on his life. Either way, I’m still left with the impression that I don’t really know who Vladimir Nabokov, the man and author, is. That’s okay, but speaks to why characterizing the book as an autobiography is misleading.
While the fifteen essays are put together in an orderly, chronological fashion, I’m fascinated that they were written out of order, over many years, and in many very different locations. Not surprisingly, there is some unevenness to the 15 chapters of the book, which is a minor criticism.
What I really appreciated about the narrative is that not only was the author able to recollect these snippets of his earlier life with amazing detail – both sensual and factual -- but that he was simultaneously able to evaluate and objectify his role in those snippets, often with some self-deprecating humor. Absolutely remarkable!
... and from far outside of the childhood mansion:
We'll be heading home on Thursday from a camping trip to Cloudcroft, so we may not be home in time to join in the Zoom meeting. My comments on your selection follow: I found Speak, Memory interesting, but at times mind-numbing. Whenever he lapsed into hunting butterflies or composing chess problems, I lost interest, but then I'm neither a lepidopterist nor a chess master. Sadly, the beauty of his language could not overcome my boredom in those instances. In spite of Nabokov's contention in the "Foreword" that the work was "a systematically correlated assemblage of personal recollections," I had difficulty sometimes following his system. One certainly cannot criticize his knowledge of the English language and his skill in using it. I thoroughly enjoyed the power and beauty of the words he chose. B
- Jack
Chapter Nine, page 185.
Charlie: I am negative too. B-, borderline C. Boring, arrogant, although the last 50 pages of the book were good. I wish I had never read two-thirds of it.
Keith: A staccato; Nabokov is the Beethoven of writers; he used many pencils with no erasers. He spent 50 years in exile from surrealistic imagery. Too much family; I would have enjoyed more philosophy. Samples he provided: "Enjoy life - but not too much." "One is always at home in one's past." [this drove me to many bottles of wine]. "Sleep is moronic, a nightly betrayal of genius."
I suggest get rid of the other 98% of the book, as this could be a great 50 page book. This book is a dismal failure; memory is closest to a fixed star in a rude world.
I enjoyed (50 pages): B-
Bob Woods: I have been a Nabokov fan ever since Pale Fire; beyond that, not much in English is available. I found it very interesting and give it an A
Bob Simon: I found the flashbacks disconcerting. I would never recommend this book, and I would never read it again. B-
Karl: Much to my surprise, I enjoyed the book. I took it as a collection of essays, which gave me a satisfying frame of reference: A-
This Nabokov guy can write!
Normally, I have little interest in biographies, especially autobiographies. This book being touted as the latter didn’t exactly engender much enthusiasm in me to read it. Not reading it would have been a mistake though, as I enjoyed it very much. Classifying Speak, Memory as an autobiography is, I believe, a bit of a mischaracterization. It’s really a collection of snapshots from the first 40 or so years of the author’s life.
In that regard, the book is very effective – up to a point -- in showing the reader what youth and education was like for Nabokov. That he started out “privileged” is an understatement. That he subsequently endured a series of tragedies – the loss of his family’s wealth and status, exile, the assassination of his father, the starvation death of his brother in a concentration camp – didn’t seem to have affected him nearly as much as the lack of closure from his relationships with, first Colette, then Mademoiselle O, finally with Tamara. But who knows? Maybe he just downplayed their impact on his life. Either way, I’m still left with the impression that I don’t really know who Vladimir Nabokov, the man and author, is. That’s okay, but speaks to why characterizing the book as an autobiography is misleading.
While the fifteen essays are put together in an orderly, chronological fashion, I’m fascinated that they were written out of order, over many years, and in many very different locations. Not surprisingly, there is some unevenness to the 15 chapters of the book, which is a minor criticism.
What I really appreciated about the narrative is that not only was the author able to recollect these snippets of his earlier life with amazing detail – both sensual and factual -- but that he was simultaneously able to evaluate and objectify his role in those snippets, often with some self-deprecating humor. Absolutely remarkable!
... and from far outside of the childhood mansion:
We'll be heading home on Thursday from a camping trip to Cloudcroft, so we may not be home in time to join in the Zoom meeting. My comments on your selection follow: I found Speak, Memory interesting, but at times mind-numbing. Whenever he lapsed into hunting butterflies or composing chess problems, I lost interest, but then I'm neither a lepidopterist nor a chess master. Sadly, the beauty of his language could not overcome my boredom in those instances. In spite of Nabokov's contention in the "Foreword" that the work was "a systematically correlated assemblage of personal recollections," I had difficulty sometimes following his system. One certainly cannot criticize his knowledge of the English language and his skill in using it. I thoroughly enjoyed the power and beauty of the words he chose. B
- Jack
