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A review by casparb
Pnin by Vladimir Nabokov
4.0
A somewhat shorter novel from Nabokov - but delightful nonetheless! Interestingly, Pnin appears to be more straightforwardly comedic than many of his other novels, which tend more so to rely on clever wordplay, allusion, and intensely veiled sexual references.
Pnin appears to be a manner of skewed autobiography, in the vein of Pale Fire (though be wary of overstating the biographical elements!). I say 'skewed', as Nabokov relentlessly mocks poor Timofey Pnin for his poor english skills and eccentric mannerisms. I understand that the author himself only suffered from the latter.
I will admit to laughing out loud at the scene where Pnin ruthlessly investigates the washing machine - there is something about it that is so accessible and familiar.
Of course, searching for beauty in Nabokov is much like searching for water droplets in the sea. Thus I will be strict with myself, and quote only once:
'I do not know if it has ever been noted before that one of the main characteristics of life is discreteness. Unless a film of flesh envelops us, we die. Man exists only insofar as he is separated from his surroundings. The cranium is a space-traveller's helmet. Stay inside or you perish. Death is divestment, death is communion. It may be wonderful to mix with the landscape, but to do so is the end of the tender ego.'
Pnin appears to be a manner of skewed autobiography, in the vein of Pale Fire (though be wary of overstating the biographical elements!). I say 'skewed', as Nabokov relentlessly mocks poor Timofey Pnin for his poor english skills and eccentric mannerisms. I understand that the author himself only suffered from the latter.
I will admit to laughing out loud at the scene where Pnin ruthlessly investigates the washing machine - there is something about it that is so accessible and familiar.
Of course, searching for beauty in Nabokov is much like searching for water droplets in the sea. Thus I will be strict with myself, and quote only once:
'I do not know if it has ever been noted before that one of the main characteristics of life is discreteness. Unless a film of flesh envelops us, we die. Man exists only insofar as he is separated from his surroundings. The cranium is a space-traveller's helmet. Stay inside or you perish. Death is divestment, death is communion. It may be wonderful to mix with the landscape, but to do so is the end of the tender ego.'