The Real Nabokov

I read Lolita at the grand age of 15. Not very much older than the 12 year old girl, who is at the centre of the novel. In ignorance of Nabokov, and more in the knowledge that the book had been scandalous, it was no surprise that I finished it with disgust. I was appalled that any writer could possess such thoughts, that somehow the world valued it and labeled it one of the best written works. For the longest time, I had decided against Nabokov.

Then this August, a friend handed me 'Reading Lolita in Tehran' and because I have utter faith in her choice, I took it and began reading. Having also recently read and adored Persepolis, it was easy to fall for the book as Nafisi wound a tale of hopes shattering, leashes being stretched, cynicism holding dark abode - intertwined with new friendships, gentle confessions, the ray of sunlight on a dark corner. Her memory of her young students flowing out of the book, enmeshed in conversations on deliciously fought out freedom to read banned literature. As I read them discussing Lolita, a wonderful thing happened. I finally let go of my superficial childhood interpretation of the book. Nabokov enraged me less, intrigued me more.

And so, on a fine evening in a book store, out I came trotting with 'The Real Life of Sebastian Knight', Nabokov's first venture in English. I also read more about him and was startled to find that he was a well known lepidoptorist - a specialist in butterflies, even had a genus named after him! And he had synethesia - the strange ability to attach colours to numbers or concepts. An ability, I was to find, well reflected in his fluid writing style.



I loved 'The Real Life of Sebastian Knight' even as I barely completed the first page. It was clear that I was in the hands of a master. His writing doesn't descend in rough sentences or phrases. There is a quality of a smooth flowing tapestry to it, a sensual fall. It dances, whispers, teases as it jumps over the barriers of past expression and flings itself to a a new perfection.

“[…] it was simply his becoming aware that the rhythm of his inner being was much richer than that of other souls. [...] he knew that his slightest thought or sensation had always one more dimension than those of his neighbours. […] it only remained for him to feel the awkwardness of being a crystal among glass, a sphere among circles.”

“She had imagination – the muscle of the soul – and her imagination was of a particular strong, almost masculine quality. She possessed too, that real sense of beauty which has far less to do with art than with the constant readiness to discern the halo round a frying pan or the likeness between a weeping willow and a skye terrier. And finally she was blest with a keen sense of humour.”

What is impossible for me to capture is the use of techniques in the novel, which gives it that eerie twilight feeling of being played midst the space between the land of dreams and reality. How subtly yet momentously his characters and plots are turned. The Black uncle who could write upside down and the White garrulous husband, playing chess - the knight falling. And there Sebastian, who always signed his works with a little drawn Knight. How utterly fabulous to be able to convey to the readers sub-conscious and talk to it more intimately than the consciousness is aware of! A hypnotists trick.

I am currently in the hands of another master, who I will surely write about. Post that, I will go and get me all other Nabokov's and have me a feast!