Pale Fire (Everyman’s Library (Cloth))
Pale Fire (Everyman’s Library (Cloth))
Introduction bу Richard RortyLike Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov’s Pale Fire іѕ a masterpiece tһаt imprisons υѕ inside tһе mazelike head οf a mаԁ émigré. Yеt Pale Fire іѕ more outrageously hilarious, аחԁ іtѕ narrative convolutions mаkе tһе earlier book seem аѕ straightforward аѕ a fairy tаƖе. Here’s tһе рƖοt–listen carefully! John Shade іѕ a homebody poet іח Nеw Wye, U.S.A. Hе writes a 999-line poem аbουt һіѕ life, аחԁ wһаt mау lie beyond death. Tһіѕ novel (аחԁ seldom һаѕ tһе word seemed s
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Tһе Original οf Laura
- ISBN13: 9780307271891
- Condition: Nеw
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Wһеח Vladimir Nabokov died іח 1977, һе left instructions fοr һіѕ heirs tο burn tһе 138 handwritten index cards tһаt mаԁе up tһе rough draft οf һіѕ final аחԁ unfinished novel, Tһе Original οf Laura. Bυt Nabokov’s wife, Vera, сουƖԁ חοt bear tο ԁеѕtrοу һеr husband’s last work, аחԁ wһеח ѕһе died, tһе fate οf tһе manuscript fell tο һеr son. Dmitri Nabokov, now seventy-five—tһе Russian novelist’s οחƖу surviving heir, аחԁ translator οf many οf һіѕ books—һаѕ wrestled fοr three decades wіtһ tһе
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Review by for Pale Fire (Everyman’s Library (Cloth))
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Pale Fire is the name of a 999-line poem in four cantos by the “distinguished American poet” John Shade, published posthumously in a lovingly prepared edition with a foreword and detailed commentary by the Zemblan literary scholar Charles Kinbote. Pale Fire is also the name of the novel by Vladimir Nabokov in which the poem is written by Shade and annotated by Kinbote, who are Nabokov’s creations. The novel is actually written in the form of poem and scholarly apparatus, not omitting a thorough index. It is a perfect and perfectly original union of form and meaning. It is also wickedly, outrageously funny. The poem itself is a complicated, beautiful, mysterious achievement. It reveals the character of John Shade so completely and movingly that we have to keep reminding ourselves that it was actually written by Nabokov, himself. The poem is the heart of the novel, literally and figuratively, although the commentary no doubt constitutes the most interesting reading. Pale Fire is Shade’s final work; possibly his greatest work. It is the product of every thought and experience in a long, thoughtful life, and it also contains that entire life: childhood, adolescence, marriage, fatherhood, old age and death. The title refers to the “pale fire of time,” and is taken from a poem by Yeats and not from Shakespeare, as Kinbote confidently suggests. Or is Nabokov simply leading us on a merry chase? Better check Timon of Athens to be sure.And Kinbote is frequently wrong in his confident suggestions in the commentary. He identifies allusions where none exist; fails to recognize those that are actually there (he is writing his notes in a remote cabin in the Rockies and complains that he has no books to check his references), and suggests interpretations which are clearly, hilariously, wrong. The hapless Dr. Kinbote has got it into his head that Pale Fire (the poem) is really about himself, and his commentary is an audacious attempt to demonstrate this. So, almost ignoring what is actually present in the poem, he proceeds through the commentary to give a detailed history of his own life and times, often revealing far more than he really means to do. And it turns out to be quite a good story, because Kinbote, a native of the remote northern European country of Zembla, has had quite an adventurous past. It is only a pity that it is quite irrelevant to Shade’s poem. Kinbote just happens to be a man who doesn’t do anything by halves; even the most innocuous phrase of the poem is “demonstrated” to be a cryptic reference to some event in Kinbote’s life. Pale Fire is nothing if it is not great fun. But Pale Fire is not merely amusing and inventive. Kinbote’s commentary seems to be everything literary criticism should not be; but it is actually only an extreme, exaggerated version of what literary criticism truly is. Kinbote attempts to rewrite Shade’s poem in his own image and likeness, but this is true to a greater or lesser extent–or a more or less subtle extent–of every critic, amateur or professional. Pale Fire is thus a complex, and ultimately rather touching, demonstration of the way people have of reading their lives into books and reading books into their lives, like Kinbote. (And also, the way we have of writing our lives into books and writing books into our lives, like Shade.) It is an affirmation of the power of literature, of the power of books to help us make sense of our lives, and of the impossibility of distinguishing precisely where art ends and life begins. To quote John Shade: I feel I understand/ Existence, or at least a minute part/ Of my existence, only through my art,/ In terms of combinational delight;/ And if my private universe scans right,/ So does the verse of galaxies divine/ Which I suspect is an iambic line.Almost every reader can remember that one particular novel, poem or play that seemed to have been written for him and him alone. The one the reader took so personally, it changed his entire outlook on life and which even now he cannot discuss rationally or impartially. Every passionate reader knows of just such a book or even books. So, perhaps we should spare one or two sympathetic thoughts for the poor, but smitten, Dr. Kinbote even as we laugh uproariously at his well-intentioned mistakes.
Review by Scott Esposito for Pale Fire (Everyman’s Library (Cloth))
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Pale Fire — Vladimir NabokovIt is arguable, and debatable, whether this title or Lolita is Nabokov’s masterpiece, but what is certain is that Pale Fire is once of the tightest, best-structured books of the 20th century.Pale Fire is laid out in three parts: a Foreward written by Charles Kinbote, a Poem written by John Shade, and Commentary, also written by Kinbote.What is prefigured in the Foreword and then made explicit in the Commentary is Kinbote’s strange relationship with Shade and his equally strange past. The story is told completely through the device of the Foreword and Commentary, and in them Kinbote paints himself as a refugee from a despotic regime in a faraway land known only as Zembla. He takes up residence in New Wye, right across the street from professor and poet John Shade.Once settled in New Wye, Kinbote embarks on an obsessive, mutedly homoerotic relationship with his poet neighbor, courting him when they are together and spying on him the rest of the time. Although Kinbote has fled his native Zembla, he dearly loves his homeland with the pain of one who knows he can never return to the land he has forsaken, and it is his dream that Shade will immortalize Zembla in a poem.But just as Kinbote reaches for Zembla, so does Zembla reach for Kinbote. In the Commentary Kinbote brings forth a character called Gradus, who is an assassin sent from Zembla to search him out and kill him.If the Foreword and Commentary tell the story of Kinbote, then the Poem tells the story of Shade. In only 999 lines, Shade paints a vivid picture of his past, taking us through his idyllic life in New Wye, its sudden destruction one night by death of his daughter, and his subsequent coping. In more ways than one it is the ideal complement to Kinbote’s text, providing a clear, beautiful counterpart to Kinbote’s unsteady rants and digressions.However, what takes this book from mere postmodern game and transforms it to a dynamic, engrossing title is Kinbote’s unreliability as a narrator and the questions surrounding who the real author of the Poem, Foreword, and Commentary is. Does Zembla really exist and has Kinbote really fled it? Is Gradus’s climatic appearance the result of a government plot against Kinbote, or just another of the strange coincidences that pervade Pale Fire? Finally, is Shade’s poem really Shade’s, or has Kinbote written it for his own purposes? Vice versa, is Kinbote the real creative force behind the Foreword and Commentary, or is it the work of some different, other-worldly presence?Nabokov masterfully spreads the information needed to answer these questions throughout Pale Fire, yet he does so in such a way that nothing is ever made completely explicit. Just as in all of Nabokov’s best books, it is up to the reader to make that final conceptual leap, to take that final step after being carried along by Nabokov’s poetic narrative.Thus, Pale Fire is not a book that should be read only once, or quickly. It is a book that hides hints in the strangest of places (more than a couple appear in the Index), and one which cannot be completely understood the first time through. That is not to say that the first reading will not be satisfying, as Nabokov does give us a suspenseful, well-drawn narrative, but that as the reader peers back into Pale Fire she will see the book growing deeper and deeper as new items begin to pop up, like stars in the sky as evening fades to night.
Review by Marc Cenedella for Pale Fire (Everyman’s Library (Cloth))
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Oh, there is no fanatic like a convert. And Nabokov’s writing in the English language bestows his found tongue with rapture. This is Nabokov’s finest (I suppose in this 21st century, I just don’t find Lolita shocking! shocking! the way its rookie readers must have) and one of the top ten novels of the 20th century.Surprisingly, you’ll find that this book composed of a 999-line poem and the commentary written on that poem by a colleague, has a plot. It is ingenious, twisted, brilliant. One of the most finely crafted works of art ever. I’ve picked up the word “replete” in relation to art from Steven Pinker, and this work is repleteful. The words, the language, the structure, the social criticism, and most of all, the beauty, as I contemplate and re-contemplate this work, grow ever more replete.I love this poem. “I was the shadow of the waxwing slain/ In the false azure of the windowpane” and its delicate rhymes and trips and footfalls are savored with every single re-reading. He brings an outsiders perspective to the language with rhymes we don’t “see” but hear: “Come and be worshipped, come and be caressed / My dark Vanessa, crimson-barred, my blest” and it sometimes feels like he’s introducing you to a new English language.So who wouldn’t like this book, I suppose, should be a question the reviewer should try to answer. Well, I just can’t imagine anybody that’s ever bought a novel not liking this one, so I suppose if you’re a pure non-fiction reader, this ain’t for you. And Nabokov is a bit bloodless at times, you won’t find the wild, sloppy joy of a Kerouac, or the brawny aggressiveness of a Hemingway, but finely finely crafted and turned and polished words delivered impeccably, perfectly.Please, please, read Pale Fire. The more of us that carry Nabokov’s masterwork in our hearts, the more he will have “lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky”
Review by Elizabeth Hendry for Pale Fire (Everyman’s Library (Cloth))
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Pale Fire is a wonderfully enjoyable work of fiction, although it is not in the form of a traditional novel. The story unfolds in an introduction to, and commentary to a 999 line poem. It appears that Nabakov had great fun constructing this masterpiece and I think the reader will have fun deciphering it. The introduction and commentary are “written” by a slightly insane, slightly delusional professor, Charles Kinbote, who is perhaps a deposed king on the run, perhaps not. He believes he has inspired the poet to construct a poem about his former kingdom, but alas, the poem is about the poet’s life. Kinbote is greatly disappointed, but in his commentary manages to find allusions to his former kingdom and rambles on and on about it. The results are often hilarious and always thought provoking. Nabokov has such a good time writing in English and because it is not his native toungue, he sees things in the words that native English speakers wouldn’t. It’s fun to watch him play with the words, as it’s fun to watch him play with our conceptions of reality. The whole book plays around with what is reality, who is the narrator. Is it Nabokov pretending to be Kinbote, is it just Nabokov. One wonders what really happened in the story. Kinbote tells one version, the characters he speaks of tells another, as does our poet, John Shade, Nabokov is telling yet another. There are so many layers of story and illusion. I found myself wondering what really happened, but it’s fiction, nothing happened, or everything happened. I really enjoyed this book a great deal. It even took my mind off of being in the dentist’s chair. I highly recommend this book to anyone who isn’t afraid of slightly experimental fiction. Fans of Infinite Jest and House of Leaves will certainly enjoy Pale Fire.
Review by A.J. for Pale Fire (Everyman’s Library (Cloth))
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This novel is a brilliantly conceived profile of two humorous literary characters, one whom we never meet but know only through a 999-line poem called “Pale Fire” he composed in the last twenty days of his life, and the other his unwelcome colleague, an eccentric man with delusions of grandeur and persecution mania, who annotates the poem. Although the novel consists of only the poem and the commentary, rest assured there is a plot, but its development is quite unconventional.The poet is a reclusive college professor named John Shade, and his colleague is another professor named Charles Kinbote, who comes from a fictitious northern European country called Zembla. Kinbote, long an admirer of Shade’s work, had rented a house adjacent to Shade’s five months prior to Shade’s death. Kinbote has a voyeuristic obsession with Shade, spying on his house with binoculars and prying into his work. Convinced that he and Shade had some kind of exclusive rapport during Shade’s final months, Kinbote believes that much of the text of “Pale Fire” refers to information he had disclosed to Shade about recent political events in Zembla, when it is obvious that Shade’s poem is strictly personal, expounding on important times in his life: his childhood, his courtship with his wife, the death of his daughter, his heart attack. The “narration” of the novel takes place a few months after Shade’s death, with Kinbote living in a motel room disturbed by noisy neighbors and writing his commentary about the poem. His commentary tends to go off on comical tangents about the political intrigue in Zembla. We learn that the last King of Zembla was imprisoned in his palace during a quasi-Bolshevik Revolution but managed to escape via a secret passage and travel incognito to America, where he was given a new identity. After the escape, the King was stalked by a heavily aliased assassin who resourcefully discovered his quarry’s whereabouts, resulting in a confrontation whose outcome did not go exactly as planned. The plot construction is diabolically clever in the way Nabokov reveals information little by little throughout Kinbote’s commentary; you may have to read the book twice to see which details you missed the first time, but Nabokov’s prose is so colorful and ebullient that doing so is a pleasure. Even more interesting is the doubt established by Nabokov as to whether Kinbote’s revelations are reality or delusions; his sanity is questionable. Every now and then I come across a book that’s so wildly creative and so much fun that it reminds me why I love to read — “Pale Fire” is easily one of those books.
Review by Martin Monreal for The Original of Laura
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So: Flora is married to a much older man. She’s not satisfied. She has lovers galore. One of them has written a novel, “My Laura,” in which he tells everything about her. A copy ends up in the hands of her husband, who is now dedicated to think himself out of existence–literally. That’s the story. Only, it is not really there. You can guess it as you can feel the ghostly presence of future Nabokovian corrections (elimination of redundancies, substitution of common verbs for more striking ones, a vast cast of secondary characters, etc.). But in truth “The Original of Laura” is not a novel. It is something less and something more than that.
It is less because, unlike the case of Kafka’s and Virgil’s masterpieces, this is truly unfinished –that is, unfinished beyond any possible reconstruction– and will forever remain so. In Flora’s description we can find the following premonitory remarks: “Her exquisite bone structure immediately slipped into a novel — became in fact the secret structure of that novel.” That is exactly what we have: not a novel but its bones.
If you are not already a “Nabokovian,” or if you simply want to “read a novel” during your morning trip to work, I suggest that you pick any other text by the master.
At the same time it is something more because it allows us to take a sneaky look at the creative process as Nabokov understood it –or as it was laid upon him by the Muse, Chance, McFate (remember the list in Lolita?) or whomever you choose. As most of his readers know he wrote his books on little index cards, not in the order of the finished story, but rather like a puzzle–today a piece here, tomorrow a piece there. What really makes this edition special is not so much the text itself –I hate to say this, I love Nabokov, and there are some gems buried in the heap, of course, things like “Mrs Lind cursed the old housemaid for buying asparagus instead of Aspirin and hurried to the pharmacy herself,” or “A cloudless September maddened the crickets”)– but the fact that every single manuscript card is reproduced in very high quality, so that you have the manuscript and its printed version together in every single page. As if that were not enough, the cards are detachable, so you can shift them around and play with the order of the story, as the author would have done (well, not exactly as he would have done it, but you get to play “the great writer” for a little while).
I think this is a nice touch; that sitting in Nabokov’s chair for a little while and looking at the work-in-progress is a way of paying our tribute to someone who has made us live a good part of our lives in a state of bliss.
Review by J. Edgar Mihelic for The Original of Laura
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I have a whole shelf of Nabokov books in my home. I fell in love with the man’s writings after reading the author’s introduction to _Pale Fire_. I have thrilled over lines in his books and his short stories, lamented that he isn’t studied in the academy as often as he should, and lent out his works.
But this most recent book, which I preordered and waited for with bated breath was not up to the standards of his most mediocre work. The production of the text is interesting to see as an academic curiosity, but I vastly overpaid for that privilege. There’s about 30 pages of text here if it were broken down and no story. What happened was the seeds of a story were taken and turned into a middling post-modern novel. I respect what his literary executors were trying to do for fans and scholars, but I feel that Vladamir’s wishes were honored on this occasion.
I have to say though that I am generally not against the publication of posthumous fiction. I have thrilled lately at the remnants of Kurt Vonnegut’s life works. I have enjoyed _A Happy Death_, a novel found amongst the wreckage of Camus’s life. I also puzzled over a collection of uncompleted speeches by Calvino. But what those texts had was completeness. _The Original of Laura_ lacks this completeness. However, as a fan of the man’s works, I do still feel fortunate to have this last contact.
Review by Andrew N. Weber for The Original of Laura
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In the opening image of “The Original of Laura,” a husband smashes a paperweight on the hand of his nymphomaniac wife as she rumages through his desk. The brutality is not payback for her affairs, but a warding off of her perceived attempt to snoop into his unfinished “poisonous opus.” (In fact, she was searching for a piece of junk mail.)
Are we, the morbid readers of a work which the author never finished and, as the legend goes, gave instructions to destroy on his death bed, the ones who really deserve the bruised knuckles? Many who shell out full price for this thick hardcover which contains less than four thousand words will no doubt feel a certain stinging feeling. The decision to publish photographic images of Naboakov’s original index cards side-by-side with a typeset version has its charm. But why the need to devote whole pages to their blank backs? I am not complaining, I am just not sure if this is a clue, a joke or a cheap con to get the volume up to fighting weight for the New Hardback racks.
The novel is about a fat, aging professor who copes with death by turning it into a sexual game and who copes with his wife’s serial infidelities by writing a humiliating novel about her. As a side project, the professor is deconstucting, “The Interpretation of Dreams.” We get plot and character in fragments. Yet the story has tremendous emotional heft. These are disturbed and, at times, ugly people. But we care about them despite ourselves, despite them and despite the fact that the novel is barely a first draft. Less is more, and, with a writer as miraculous as Nabakov, almost nothing is more than less.
The story behind the book’s journey to print overshadows the actual story in the book, which itself is a unique literary achievement. In the introduction, Dimitri Nabokov explains the curse of his inheritance: satisfy his father’s wishes when he is not sure of his father’s wishes. In the end, he settles on a cop out: he is no longer going to deal with the debate, no more being hounded by academic stalkers. He has made us all the caretaker of his curse. We even get our own set of index cards.
Review by Andreas Ramos for The Original of Laura
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My copy arrived yesterday and I read it in a single sitting. I’ve read absolutely nothing in advance of this, so I read it without anyone else’s footprints in my path.
The title itself, “The Original of Laura”, tells you this will be different. What does that mean, “the original of Laura”? That’s a broken sentence. The origins of Laura?
Pull off the book’s cover and wordplay begins. Hidden under the cover is a list of words for efface, erase, delete… and the list contains a deleted phrase. Words and reality intertwined. You’ve not yet begun to read, and already the book is mirroring itself.
Printed on card stock, Vladimir’s index cards are photographically reproduced as punch-out cards; you can remove the cards and create your copy of Vladimir’s index cards, just as he held them in his hands. This book isn’t a book, it’s the reproduction of the original (index cards) of Laura.
Dimitri Nabokov has created a puzzle worthy of his father. If you admire Nabokov’s work, get this book. (Psst. I also recommend Danielewski’s “House of Leaves”.)
Review by John R. Lindermuth for The Original of Laura
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As an admirer of Nabokov, I wish I could give this a higher rating. Unfortunately, it’s not a book but rather a fragment of one.
We have an obese man blissfully oblivious to being cuckolded by his wife until the fact is driven home by a novel penned by another lover and he decides to obliterate himself by meditating on the process. None of the characters is fully realized and it’s apparent Nabokov was a long way from completing the story.
Am I among those who wish it never had been published? No. A little is better than no Nabokov. The wit is present. The playfulness with language. The quirky character names. There’s even a Hubert H. Hubert, reminding one of another character. Hopefully there’s enough to interest those who haven’t already to investigate his oeuvre. It’s inspired me to read again some favorites.
As I writer, I also found it interesting to see the hand-written cards he used to compose his manuscript. It’s obvious they are not a complete book but a sort of road map Nabokov used as he explored, changed and developed the novel already present in his mind. What a book it might have been had he lived to complete it is undoubtedly a far cry from what we are given.