As a huge fan of Nabokov and a curious explorer of the realm of reconstructed memory through memoirs and autobiographies, this book has been idling on my to-read list for a bit, ever since my enthralling encounter with Lolita. An account of Nabokov’s life, more or less chronologically, from childhood to adulthood, from a flourishing and aristocratic lifestyle in Russia to exile in Europe and eventually a life in America, this series of fifteen vignettes renders the landscape of Nabokov’s young life with nostalgia and the pain of a joyful, yet lost, childhood.
What I find most interesting in the memories that Nabokov presents to the reader in his anecdotes is that, with alarming beauty, utmost tenderness, and genius precision, they represent “a kind of delicate meeting place between imagination and knowledge” (167). Nabokov’s approach to seeing the world as a child and capturing the artistic in nature involves a blending of memory and fiction and the creation of captivating details that one genre can generously lend to the other.
I loved this sense of playfulness between working towards the precision/ truthfulness of memory and being self-aware of memory as part fiction, a re-telling of one’s past as colored by the present. As experienced in Nabokov’s robust and detailed account of his French governess, “Mademoiselle,” he at the same time emphasizes an uncertainty of knowing whether the characters of one’s childhood are really as they have been imprinted in one’s mind:
“Houses have crumbled in my memory as soundlessly as they did in the mute films of yore, and the portrait of my old French governess, whom I once lent to a boy in one of my books, is fading fast, now that it is engulfed in the description of a childhood entirely unrelated to my own. The man in me revolts against the fictionist, and here is my desperate attempt to save what is left of poor Mademoiselle” (95).
The inability to truly know the accuracy of one’s convictions about the past, the faultiness of recollection, the world of fiction from which bloom all the colorful details which we so adamantly claim to be true — this, I think, is at the heart of this book.
We witness Nabokov in the very act of recalling and are swept up in the minute details of the places that he revisits in his mind. He poignantly describes the reconstruction of his memory of garden parties on his family’s estate, the actions of family members around the banquet table, and the foods and desserts laid out for the meal. It is interesting to note that Nabokov says he always approaches this childhood scene in his mind from the vantage point of the park rather than from the house, “as if the mind, in order to go back thither, had to do so with the silent steps of a prodigal, faint with excitement” (171).
In his account of this scene, time is slowed, sounds are muted, and the reader experiences a slow-motion effect from the words on the page in a gloriously cinematic recreation. And then suddenly, “some knob is touched and a torrent of sounds comes to life,” and the reader is thrust into normal speed again, with the scene bursting to life with the immediacy of real time. Nabokov’s ability to warp and pause the speed of time, and to convey his confession that he does “not believe in time,” exhibits his mastery and control of language, his ability to bring us closer to a different reality, one that is beyond the immediate veneer of our everyday lives.
I enjoyed being witness to Nabokov’s first encounters with the passions of his life — butterfly-catching, poetry, chess, his first romances. It makes me think back to the moments in my own life when a sudden interest was sparked at random or in ways I don’t quite remember, when the beauty of the world outside of ourselves pressed itself so incessantly on our young minds and came out of us in tender, fumbling ways, and turning points that were so crucial to the development of who we are today.
His description of the dripping of rain drops on a singular leaf after a thunderstorm, and how the rhymes of a poem suddenly crystallized in his mind as a newfound passion (“tip, leaf, drip, relief”), was especially meaningful for me:
“…the instant it all took to happen seemed to me not so much a fraction of time as a fissure in it, a missed heartbeat, which was refunded at once by a patter of rhymes; I say ‘patter’ intentionally, for when a gust of wind did come, the trees would briskly start to drip all together in as crude an imitation of the recent downpour as the stanza I was already muttering resembled the shock of wonder I had experienced when for a moment heart and leaf had been one” (217)
Such passages are laden with the attention, beauty, and sheer mastery that made this book so delectable to read. I also considered what Nabokov then says about poetry: “But then, in a sense, all poetry is positional: to try to express one’s position in regard to the universe embraced by consciousness, is an immemorial urge. The arms of consciousness reach out and grope, and the longer they are the better.”
The older I grow, the longer my arms of consciousness get in trying to reach out to the outside world, to those around me, as well as towards myself in awareness of what I have to give from what I have gained. Poetry has certainly been “positional” for me in this regard, and I appreciated Nabokov’s wisdom on this. This has been one of the best reads of the year for me, and I was appreciative of the power, intellect, and sensitivity of Nabokov’s writing.
I need a book, a very specific kind of book, for my ailment. I can’t put my finger on it — perhaps you may help me with a diagnosis and a literary cure. A sinking stomach, glazed eyes which light from one shadow to the next, undiscerning and undecided, a dry mouth taste and lack of satisfaction when eating certain words, and certainly not helping to spit them back out. Listless lingering in the spaces between conversations, nervous and inappropiately-timed laughter. A longing to step into paintings which contain cypresses, paths, and bushes. The insistence of two voices — one declaring what one wants to think and the other insinuating what one really wants to think. An obsession with cats. The desire to be alone and seeking that which is in accordance with the silent world. A silent, man-made, carpeted world.
Treatment: a long and winding Murakami novel, with unreadable characters, vanishing animals, strange and foreboding occurrences, and journeys towards something to be found. Every night for the next two months, an hour a night, until the adventure has been seen through to the end.
I must admit that this is the first Russian classic that I’ve ever read in my entire career as a bookworm. This behemoth of a novel is certainly worth the read and is actually quite absorbing until, I would say, the last 50 pages of the agonizing finish. This is one of the books that I wish I had read in a college course and that I would sink my teeth into more if I were forced to write a paper on it, but since it is part of the reading for Colby College’s Great Books Summer Institute, fortunately I’ll have the chance to sit in on some good discussions of the novel.
The main character, Raskolnikov, is a complex study of an intellectual mind that struggles to justify the premeditated murder of an old cruel pawnbroker through reason and idealistic theories of utilitarianism. The anguish, mental illness, guilt, and inward suffering that follow the murder paint a sympathetic and very human picture of a man who has erred, whose familial and social relationships deteriorate as a result of his detachment, and who must ultimately pay for his dark deed by turning himself in to the authorities. Even after sludging through the disturbed psyche that permeates the entire novel (but in a fascinating, can’t-put-this-down way), I was glad to find a small ray of sunshine in the love that Raskolnikov discovers in himself for Sonya, a former prostitute who stays by his side throughout his imprisonment and who garners the respect of other inmates because of her dedication to him.
I think one of the most fascinating and eerie bits of the novel happens towards the beginning of the novel even before the murder is committed, when Raskolnikov dreams of a childhood event. Interestingly enough, the dream contains autobiographical elements from Dostoevsky’s life. In the dream, the child Raskolnikov is walking with his father past a tavern when they happen upon a group of drunk men who decide to beat and kill an old mare as she tries to pull an impossible wagon-load of people. In a frenzy, the men take up crowbars, sticks, and whips to finish off the poor horse. As she dies, Raskolnikov shouts and runs to the mare, crying and kissing her muzzle in a childlike display of empathy for her senseless murder.
The dream foreshadows well the murder of the old crone and reveals to the reader the extent to which Raskolnikov’s subconscious is not that of a cold-blooded murderer but rather someone who was born with not only a conscience but an acute sense of compassion. We see these bouts of compassion in Raskolnikov in his acts of charity towards Marmeladov and also towards Sonya, but we also see aggressive and dark episodes in Raskolnikov’s behavior towards his mother and sister, perhaps because he is at a complete loss of how to possibly move forward with his life after the murder. Raskolnikov is a character who is volatile, disturbed, and ultimately confused by the decisions that he makes and his rationale for making them.
What is so engrossing about this novel is the intense psychological turmoil that the reader experiences through Raskolnikov’s engaging yet still slightly detached point of view, and also the insight that we get into the impoverished life and suffering of the characters. Also very interesting is the moment right before Raskolnikov actually commits the murder. The event of the murder, in his mind, would be the result of intellectual calculations and reasoning, and yet among his scattered thoughts, there is also the suggestion that this was not exactly a decision but rather a mechanical course of events that led him inevitably to the kill the old woman:
He walked in like a man condemned to death. He was not reasoning about anything, and was totally unable to reason; but he suddenly felt with his whole being that he no longer had any freedom either of mind or of will, and that everything had been suddenly and finally decided… The last day, which had come so much by chance and resolved everything at once, affected him almost wholly mechanically: as if someone had taken him by the hand and pulled him along irresistibly, blindly, with unnatural force, without objections.
Raskolnikov believes beforehand that if he maintains his cool rationality during and after the crime, he would not fall into the blunders of common criminals who get caught. Little does he know, however, that “this darkening of reason” would characterize his mental state leading up to the crime, during, and long after. Once he has made up his mind to follow through with his plan, Raskolnikov seems to no longer be functioning as a rational human being but rather as a cog caught in a wheel, which is ironic because the crime was conceived as a rational endeavor that would ultimately benefit many others.
I guess the most important questions I myself took from the novel were: Should the reader sympathize with Raskolnikov? Is that ultimately what the author would want? Is a pre-meditated crime, or anything which violates our innate moral codes, justifiable by any kind of philosophical theory or desire to help those closest to us? When is it that we should or should not approach our relationships and actions with reason as opposed to gut feeling, and is there a point at which reason leaves us after we’ve made irrevocable decisions? Would our lives benefit more from acting as creatures of the mind or of the heart?
Definitely a recommendable read for those who love long novels involving crime and the criminal’s tortured psyche. A tome though it may be, it’s actually highly engrossing, with different plot lines that all weave into the same one, and with vivid, believable characters that make the novel come alive.