I Love You, Nabokov
Is it so wrong of me to want a subscription? Because, you know, I don’t read enough about books. *boggle*
Am I the only person who thinks Nabokov’s Invitation to a Beheading is a perfect parable about life in a fascist state? Yes, I know dear Vladimir would be the last person to call it such, and would probably consign me to the deepest depths of reader hell for it. But I keep reading the book, over and over (it’s one of the few I read compulsively, usually right before bed) and I can’t help but see M. Pierre as the Great Leader (a Stalinesque figure) and the jailer etc. as different functions of the totalitarian state. Marthe is the poisoning of human relationships in such a state, and Cincinnatus C? He’s the artist, struggling to break free and see the true world under a fabric of lies.
I’ll probably have another analysis for the book as I grow older–that is, after all, the point of a good book, to grow older with it and discover new meanings and complexities, like a good friend. But for right now the book as parable of the hideous state that even wants to control its members’ dreams is foremost in my mind. Reading Antony Beevor’s Stalingrad only brings the comparison home more deeply when I read about the NKVD shooting troops that fled from battle, or Stalin’s son sent to the gulag.
*thinks for a moment*
I keep compulsively checking bookstores for Nabokovs I haven’t read yet. My favorite would have to be Invitation to a Beheading, followed closely by Ada. I’m also very fond of The Defense. But any Nabokov is a good thing. I am reserving his translation of Eugene Onegin for a special occasion, like a truffle carefully wrapped up and gloated over at night before it is finally eaten. The sensuous anticipation of a book is precious, and should be luxuriated in.
*grin* What a nerdy hedonist am I. Prose makes me quiver in delight, and few things match the pleasure of opening a new book I am sure of enjoying or even intrigued by the premise of. And I almost forgot I have a copy of Pnin I haven’t read yet.
What bliss.
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