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A review by jonfaith
Pnin by Vladimir Nabokov
5.0
1.24.21 Update:
I recalled the concluding party scene in vivid detail, so clearly that I suspect I had read this at least one other time in the intervening quarter of a century. Nabokov offers us a portrait of Timofey Pnin, one both in sepia and brilliant color; one in a kaleidoscopic manner, episodic in measures equally hilarious and tragic. The fourth wall is pierced repeatedly and I’m sure there are further Easter eggs if one were to apply the scrutiny.
This is a delightful novel, part emigre caricature, part university satire. Below is the time-sensitive review I penned during some tempest on goodreads.
matters appear hysterical on goodreads these days. Ripples of concern often appear daunting to the literate, cushioned by their e-devices and their caffienated trips to dusty book stores; why, the first appearence of crossed words often sounds like the goddamn apocalypse. Well, it can anyway. I find people are taking all of this way too seriously.
I had a rough day at work. It is again hot as hell outside and I just wanted to come home and listen to chamber music and read Gaddis until my wife comes home. Seldom are matters that simple. It is within these instances of discord that I think about Pnin. I love him and the maestro's creation depicting such. I situate the novel along with Mary and The Gift in my personal sweet cell of Nabokov, insulated well away from Lolita and Ada, perhaps drawing strength from Vladimir's book on Gogol, though certainly not his letters with Bunny Wilson. It is rare that I can think about Pnin washing dishes and not tear up. I suppose I'll survive this day as well.
I recalled the concluding party scene in vivid detail, so clearly that I suspect I had read this at least one other time in the intervening quarter of a century. Nabokov offers us a portrait of Timofey Pnin, one both in sepia and brilliant color; one in a kaleidoscopic manner, episodic in measures equally hilarious and tragic. The fourth wall is pierced repeatedly and I’m sure there are further Easter eggs if one were to apply the scrutiny.
This is a delightful novel, part emigre caricature, part university satire. Below is the time-sensitive review I penned during some tempest on goodreads.
matters appear hysterical on goodreads these days. Ripples of concern often appear daunting to the literate, cushioned by their e-devices and their caffienated trips to dusty book stores; why, the first appearence of crossed words often sounds like the goddamn apocalypse. Well, it can anyway. I find people are taking all of this way too seriously.
I had a rough day at work. It is again hot as hell outside and I just wanted to come home and listen to chamber music and read Gaddis until my wife comes home. Seldom are matters that simple. It is within these instances of discord that I think about Pnin. I love him and the maestro's creation depicting such. I situate the novel along with Mary and The Gift in my personal sweet cell of Nabokov, insulated well away from Lolita and Ada, perhaps drawing strength from Vladimir's book on Gogol, though certainly not his letters with Bunny Wilson. It is rare that I can think about Pnin washing dishes and not tear up. I suppose I'll survive this day as well.