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You have to consult biographies like Brian Boyd's for the full, remarkable facts of Nabokov's life. A millionaire at 17 (his sister danced in Diaghilev gowns with Fabergé gems at the Winter Palace), repeatedly exiled, forced to bust out of one chrysalis after another into new lives, the writer retained only the infinite wealth of his memory and art. This book is a mosaic shaped by a mind so metaphorical that, as a babe, Nabokov perceived letters as colors, the alphabet as a rainbow.
The loss of his father is at Speak, Memory's core. This memoir is worth owning for a single paragraph alone, about the sight of Nabokov senior being tossed aloft by grateful peasants he'd been generous to--a dozen or so with locked arms flinging him up in a hip-hip-hooray ritual.
There, for an instant, the figure of my father in his wind-rippled white summer suit would be displayed, gloriously sprawled in midair.... Thrice, to the mighty heave-ho of his invisible tossers, he would fly up ... and then there he would be, on his last and loftiest flight, reclining, as if for good, against the cobalt blue of the summer noon, like one of those paradisiac personages who comfortably soar, with such a wealth of folds in their garments, on the vaulted ceiling of a church while below, one by one, the wax tapers in mortal hands light up to make a swarm of minute flames in the mist of incense, and the priest chants of eternal repose, and funeral lilies conceal the face of whoever lies there, among the swimming lights, in the open coffin.Nabokov recaptures the paradise of his youth, and acquits himself of the coldness of which some accuse him. He plays literary games, but he plays for keeps. --Tim Appelo
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He was attempting an impersonal egoism or an objective description of events that are very personal and private. Life in its most minute, closely observed detail is where the energy and substance for Nabokov is. He writes as if he takes nothing (the blue of the sky, the passing of time) for granted and by distancing himself is able to see the wonder and awe that is behind everything; he sees the world as the supreme artistic acheivment and is one of the few writers who acurrately captures the exhilarating nature of existence.
The main reason i am writing this is because i think it totally unfair for the reviewer below to judge Nab's relationship to his brother so harshly. I give Nab credit for having the courage to write about something so personal, that hurt him so much. He felt awful about how he treated his brother (he wasn't even a teenager yet; give him a break! or have you never treated anyone unfairly? ) and i found his writing of it to be one of the highlights of the book. To compare him to H.H. is not only wholly insane, but is also completely unfair and unkind. Humbert Humbert sexually takes advantage of a young girl and you sympathize with him more than Nab? Cookoo nuts. Did you read over the heartache he felt when writing about his brother, his dismay and futile anger towards his younger self? It's so easy for biographers and later critics to judge someone elses character (even Boyd and Schiff are guilty) but the point is it is unfair to do so because we ultimately don't know all the circumstances and should not judge.
How easy it would have been for Nab to not write about that painful episode, to polish up the picture of himself so everyone gushes (aww, he's not only a great artist but a nice guy); but no, he boldly presents things about himself that are not likeable and realizes that they are not likeable. For this he deserves much credit for observing and contemplating himself fairly and coming to terms with the fact that he has made some painful mistakes with his relationships toward others. Who hasn't?
However I skipped them to get to what lay waiting on the pages that followed: this book has in it the most breathtakingly beautiful and achingly perfect prose I've every read. Words that sweep over you and leave your heart beating a little faster. Descriptions so vivid you can feel, see, smell, hear them. Childhood episodes so familiar and so neatly presented that you'll be removed to your own childhood again, only to be brought back with a bump when the chapter ends.
Although I found great expanses of the novel tedious, after reading each of those jewel-like passages of prose, I ached to read more Nabokov, an author I never thought I would read. "Speak, Memory" has left me amazed - I never knew that the English Language could be so moving, perfect and beautiful. I'm so very glad I persevered and read it to the end!
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