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A review by mak99
Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov
challenging
reflective
sad
slow-paced
3.5
"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."
At this point, I would read Nabokov's grocery lists if they were somehow published (which, incidentally, is what reading parts of Speak, Memory felt like---if I never again have to read passage upon passage about a man's obsession with butterflies, I will consider myself lucky).
I am so blinded by Nabokov's brilliance that his pretentiousness and matter-of-factness when describing his upper-class existence---qualities I would have found grating in other writers---only adds to my complete reverence of him. Self-centeredness is only condoned when incredibly funny and annoyingly well-written. Still, despite the comedy, I was most enchanted by the final chapter; the tenderness with which Nabokov's son, Dmitri, is described, and the love father has for son, is deeply moving.
Yet, Nabokov largely shies away from sentimentality or the intimacies of his emotions when writing about his life. The cruelly violent deaths of his father and brother are chronicled, but almost in a detached fashion, devoid of reflection or grief. While an entire chapter is dedicated to a love affair in his adolescence, the meeting and falling in love with his wife, Véra, is curiously absent. Memoirs are tricky: the writer is willingly offering themself up for dissection; the reader might feel entitled to a life seemingly made public. But who am I to demand that Nabokov reveal the depth of his soul to his readers? Isn't his supreme wit and winning personality enough?
I am so blinded by Nabokov's brilliance that his pretentiousness and matter-of-factness when describing his upper-class existence---qualities I would have found grating in other writers---only adds to my complete reverence of him. Self-centeredness is only condoned when incredibly funny and annoyingly well-written. Still, despite the comedy, I was most enchanted by the final chapter; the tenderness with which Nabokov's son, Dmitri, is described, and the love father has for son, is deeply moving.
Yet, Nabokov largely shies away from sentimentality or the intimacies of his emotions when writing about his life. The cruelly violent deaths of his father and brother are chronicled, but almost in a detached fashion, devoid of reflection or grief. While an entire chapter is dedicated to a love affair in his adolescence, the meeting and falling in love with his wife, Véra, is curiously absent. Memoirs are tricky: the writer is willingly offering themself up for dissection; the reader might feel entitled to a life seemingly made public. But who am I to demand that Nabokov reveal the depth of his soul to his readers? Isn't his supreme wit and winning personality enough?