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A review by chrisssl
Pnin by Vladimir Nabokov
funny
sad
3.5
Pnin traipses along in a short 200-odd page book with many of the same glimpses of sublime prose, over-detailed quotidian observations, incredible descriptions of trees and weird, semi-erotic fascinations around the mouth that enchanted readers in Lolita. Pnin is neither as dark or masterful as that book, adopting instead a wry, absurd tone that is equally as intelligent but far less arrogant and psycho-sexually charged than Humbert Humbert. That the book is more comical than the author's reputation might suggest (however much I think the book's reputation somewhat overstates its hilarity) is not to say it's a pleasant but shallow romp without subtext. Indeed, the titular character of Pnin, bumbling, often mocked, the butt of many jokes and constantly bewildered carries within him, the deep pain of the Russian emigre. His nostalgia for a pre-Bolshevik Russia entwines his transient nature, forever skipping from one rented lodging to the next, the instability of having lost the country of your memories, his impractical and useless pedagogy as an academic for the study of his mother tongue - for which he supplies plethora of past emotions, personal linguistic inventions and cultural artifacts instead of actual clear and constructive instruction.
Despite its short length, Pnin is sometimes a dry read, lacking a clear sense of focus, plot or tension that held readers of Lolita so captive. There are some very striking moments such as the description of a panic attack, an Oedipal-like episode and the wrestling of the past, half-remembered, fading all the time. There are also exasperating instances in which Nabokov ratchets up the sheer absurdity for how long he can keep a sentence going - how many innocuous, inconsequential clauses and non-sequiturs he can add in the middle - before finally, mercifully bringing the reader to a rare full-stop. The book was for the most part enjoyable and even interesting to think about but a far cry from Nabokov's peak writing.
Despite its short length, Pnin is sometimes a dry read, lacking a clear sense of focus, plot or tension that held readers of Lolita so captive. There are some very striking moments such as the description of a panic attack, an Oedipal-like episode and the wrestling of the past, half-remembered, fading all the time. There are also exasperating instances in which Nabokov ratchets up the sheer absurdity for how long he can keep a sentence going - how many innocuous, inconsequential clauses and non-sequiturs he can add in the middle - before finally, mercifully bringing the reader to a rare full-stop. The book was for the most part enjoyable and even interesting to think about but a far cry from Nabokov's peak writing.