★ Reviews for Nabokov,

A stylish mix of Indiana Jones and Jean-Paul Sartre.

I had heard about this book before its release and I was not disappointed. The authors seem to have an uncanny sense about Nabokov's oeuvre. I have long had an interest in Nabokov's writing but was fascinated by the prospect of a book that would finally tell the story of his work, and its importance, in science. What is great about this book is that it reads with a plot, from the beginning-- which tells Nabokov's story as a scientist before his fame in literature-- to its end, which tells the story of the scientists who completed Nabokov's work nearly 50 years later. The latter includes exciting treks across remote areas of Latin America in search of Nabokov's Blues. The authors also tell us about Nabokov's fascination with butterflies within his own literature and, at the end of their book, provide what appears to be the first major assessment of Nabokov the scientist. In their opinion his contribution was far more important than ever previously appreciated. A great book.

Fascinating and Delightful Account

The authors have created an absolutely perfect and delightful work on Nabokov's butterflies and all the resulting interfaces. Nabokov has always preoccupied me and, fortunately, I also have a deep interest in nature - particularly in butterflies and birds. Thus, this book, which develops everything from Nabokov's biography and literary use of butterfly and other nature motifs to their place in modern science and today's biodiversity crisis, was wonderfully eye-opening and informative. It's my bet that few people appreciate how big a story Nabokov's science actually is. It is not only a major part of his biography, previously untold, but also a linkage of his life's scientific work to major questions confronting scientists today. As with his literature, Nabokov turns out to have been a pioneer. It is only a pity that Nabokov did not have two lifetimes, one for literature and one for science.

A Fascinating New Account

What is intriguing about this book is that it has taken an entire volume of previously untapped material-- Nabokov's scientific work and the stories of and from the scientists who have studied and completed Nabokov's pioneering work in science and woven an entirely new story about a personage who might have been considered previously well-known. Who would have known this story was around? It reminds of Sobel's Galileo's Daughter which also uses the same tack-- takes the correspondence with his daughter, previously untapped, and weaves a whole new story about Galileo! The authors of Nabokov's Blues have extra luck in that, since they are demonstrating for the first time Nabokov's acumen in two very different fields, science and literature, they can take the opportunity to interweave these two worlds, which they do in a fascinating and intriguing way. What is so compelling about this book is that its story has just not been told before. Just when you thought you knew something about Nabokov, here comes his science! and, with gusto. A great book.

An orgy of Nabokoviana.

The prize is an unfinished short story, "The Admirable Anglewing", at an immediate stage of note-taking on index cards. It's an intriguing dead end, identifiably a two-strata Nabokov, but with a strikingly scientific directness not elsewhere seen.

The bonus is an unpublished continuation of The Gift (tr. Dmitri Nabokov), which formulates a general expression of evolutionary theory in a clear and useful way, as it relates to a larger understanding of problems in taxonomy, probably omitted for the same reason "The Admirable Anglewing" was dropped.

Notes for The Butterflies Of Europe, much of Nabokov's lepidopterological work (Russia obviously lost a lepidopterist of genius), "butterfly" excerpts from the fiction, and much, much more.

It Always Came Down To Butterflies

"From the age of seven, everything I felt in connection with a rectangle of framed sunlight was dominated by a single passion," wrote Valdimir Nabokov. "If my first glance of the morning was for the sun, my first thought was for the butterflies it would engender." This was certainly an unusual way in which to view the world and one that not many readers, even those who adore Nabokov, have shared.

In fact, the ferocity of Nabokov's obsession with butterflies has only just begun to become clear with the publication of this gorgeous new book, a volume of heretofore unpublished and uncorrected writings on the subject of butterflies, edited by Nabokov's biographer Brian Boyd, together with Michael Pyle, an expert on butterflies. All translations were done by Nabokov's son, Dmitri, who has lavished his time and talent on his father's work for several decades.

Even those of us who cannot get enough of Nabokov and cannot praise him highly enough may find more than 700 densely-printed pages on the subject of butterflies a little much. As much as we love Nabokov, do we really want to read page after page of his highly technical descriptions of the various species of butterfly? Are these writings really important, from a scientific viewpoint? Is there any connection between Nabokov's passion for butterflies and his extraordinary fiction?

Although most people would probably answer "no" to the first two questions, the answer to the third is a surprisingly enthusiastic, "yes."

In his wonderful introduction, Boyd begins to elucidate the connections between Nabokov the writer and Nabokov the lepidopterist. We come to understand the novelist more completely and precisely by coming to understand that science that gave this unique author "a sense of reality that should not be confused with modern (or postmodern) epistemological nihilism."

It was while dissecting and deciphering his butterflies that Nabokov came to the conclusion that the more we inquire, the more we can discover, yet the more we discover, the more we find we do not know. The world, Nabokov says, is infinitely detailed, complex and deceptive.

Nabokov's important writings on butterflies are reproduced in this volume, but thankfully, in reduced form. And other kinds of writing by Nabokov have been blended over the scientific prose, beginning with the luminous meditation on butterflies from Chapter Six of Speak, Memory.

The poems, memoirs, letters, diary entries, criticism and fiction that make up this beautiful volume cover a period from 1941 to 1947, when Nabokov was at his most obsessive...as far as butterflies are concerned. This obsessiveness, however, is gorgeous to behold, as in a letter from Nabokov to Edmund Wilson about a lecture trip he made to Sweet Briar College. "The weather...was perfectly dreadful and except for a few Everes comyntas there was nothing on the wing." It always came down to butterflies.

Nabokov's interest in butterflies went far beyond sorting out and naming them. He was much more than a mere tabulator or categorizer. There is something exquisitely metaphysical, even mystical, about his approach to butterflies, something that also tells us of his quest to plumb the depths of nature's complexity. In his obsession, Nabokov sought to understand the sense of design that underlies the the physical world, and he also took enormous delight in the mysteries God chose to hide from human beings, leaving to them to seek them out or not.

As Boyd notes, Nabokov "preferred the small type to the main text, the obscure to the obvious, the thrill of finding for himself what was not common knowledge." His scientific writings overflow with minutiae, with obscure details, lovingly searched out, sorted, underlined, displayed. This preference for the complexity of life also underscores his writings, most notably his massive commentary on Pushkin's Onegin, the gorgeous and imaginative Pale Fire and Ada, a late masterpiece in which Nabokov's penchant for complexity reached spellbinding heights.

While only a small percentage of readers may want to study the scientific articles in this book, their very presence operates in the most subtle of ways to remind us that Nabokov, who referred to himself as VN, was also a student "of that other VN, Visible Nature." In his magnificent fiction, Nabokov offered the world a complete view of the complexity and richness of the human spirit. He might not have been so meticulous and so thorough were it not for his passion for the intricate world of butterflies, so beautifully on view in this book.

Nabakov's butterflies

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Nabokov's Sweet Madness

For Nabokov, nothing was ever as simple as it seemed. In fact, "simple" and "sincere" were two adjectives that he despised. While teaching at Wellesley College and later at Cornell, Nabokov would give a low mark to any student who used the words, "simple" and "sincere" in a paper.

Nabokov was a writer who celebrated the complexities in life. He looked for unexpected meanings in even the most banal details of existence and the test questions he set for his students were notoriously eccentric, e.g., Describe Madame Bovary's hairdo; What sort of paper covered the walls of Anna Karenina's bedroom? for Nabokov, God was a subtle being, but tremendously inventive and perhaps a little sly.

Nabokov believed that "the unraveling of a riddle is the purest and most basic act of the human mind." He probably would have loved this remarkable book, an attempt to unravel the riddles and hidden meanings Nabokov, himself, embedded in Pale Fire.

When Pale Fire first appeared in 1962, reviewers said, correctly, that it could be enjoyed without puzzling over its hidden meanings but that it obviously hid many levels of complexity. In a now-famous article, Mary McCarthy called Pale Fire "a jack-in-the-box, a Fabergé gem, a clockwork toy, a chess problem, an infernal machine, a trap to catch reviewers..." But she also thought it was a thing of perfect beauty, symmetry, strangeness, originality and moral truth.

Even on a first reading of Pale Fire, we understand that Nabokov is playing a most elaborate literary game. Kinbote is hilariously mad, and his efforts to interpret Shade's poem as a commentary on Zemblan events can be seen as a satire of imaginative academics.

But Nabokov also scattered less obvious clues throughout the book. McCarthy decided that the "real" author of the commentary was yet another Zemblan who is barely mentioned, V. Botkin. And there are those who believe that Nabokov is telling us that John Shade didn't die but simply wrote the commentary under the name of Kinbote as a way of disappearing.

Boyd now interprets Nabokov's intentions in yet another way. He believes that both the poem and the commentary were inspired from beyond the grave as well as by Shakespeare's many ghosts.

Nabokov's Pale Fire is a monument to a brilliant scholar's persistent love affair with a book and its author. For more than three decades now, Boyd has made Pale Fire, and Nabokov, his obsession, much in the way that Nabokov, himself, was obsessed with butterflies. In 1990 and 1991, Boyd published his excellent two-volume biography of Nabokov and established himself as the world's premier Nabokovian.

Pale Fire, however, remained central to this thinking. When Boyd was asked to discuss Pale Fire on the Electronic Nabokov Discussion Forum, he discovered that his own views about this remarkable and original book were changing. Those views form the heart and soul of his own vibrant and energetic work. Even if we do not agree with all of his theories (and anything, at this point, must remain only a theory) we have to admire his scrupulous intelligence and dedication.

Boyd does not disdain eccentric flights of imagination. Nor is he afraid of being thought of as obsessive. There was a sweet madness in Nabokov, and quite obviously, Boyd has assimilated some of it, all to the good.

Nabokov's Pale Fire is more than a wonderful book; it is also a labor of love of the highest order. It can only enhance your understanding and love of both Nabokov and Pale Fire, and perhaps give you some insight into Boyd, himself.

a must for Nabokov fans

Obviously I must not be as big a Nabokov groupie as other Pale Fire enthusiasts, because when I read Pale Fire in a college seminar, most of us spent weeks admiring Nabokov's academic satire and what we then thought was a purposefully horrible poem. Now I feel somewhat shamed because Boyd seems to think the poem itself is great poetry -- I cringe because our class read out loud particularly funny lines and laughed at what a good "bad" poem Nabokov wrote. Maybe Boyd does miss some of the humor, but that is all he misses. I don't think he leaves one line, joke, pun, or obscure reference unexplained. I enjoyed the first few chapters more because they stuck to many of the more obvious discoveries Nabokov intended his readers to make. By the middle, Boyd had my head spinning with some of the leaps of analysis -- I was too confused to agree or disagree. But by the end, his overall surprises and theories come together and make sense. No matter what you make of Boyd's theory, I applaud the book for its emphasis on close reading and for its obvious love of this great writer. Nabokov is one of this century's best and deserves this kind of in-depth reading. In the final chapter, Boyd answers some of the criticisms about his theory (by Michael Wood, for instance, a Princeton prof) and almost ends up sounding like Kinbote for a moment in his defensiveness. This book is a true discovery for a devout reader because it shows how to read better and more closely, how to link (bobo-link) seemingly unrelated bits together. Hats off to a great work of Nabokov scholarship -- Boyd brought in lots of information from Nabokov's other works that proved to be quite important.

Boyd is off the hook!

Amazing! When reading this insomnia-inducing book my head kept spinning with the mirror-like mirages of Pale Fire and I felt that everything I trusted and relied on when first I read that book were crumbling around me.

I have read Pale Fire twice and still only feel that I am barely familiar with how the common household objects in the place Kinbote is housesitting helped to create that zany land of the north, Zembla.

I dont want to spoil some of the surprises in this book (Boyd has gone back on his stance of Shade being the author of both poem and commmentary which he supports in his biography of Nabokov). But let me just say that these surprises provoked me in the middle of long nights to exclaim "What is goint ON? " and pace around frantically.

A haunting question (and by the way the ghostly aspects of Pale Fire which i had only felt in a vague way are exposed by Boyd to be something richer than i would have ever imagined) is not only how much control Hazel Shade had over the commentary but also how much control Nabokov's playful shade is exerting upon Boyd. The reviewer below me is onto something.

Boyd brings to Pale Fire his thorough knowledge of Nabokov's other works - for example his thesis - anti-thesis description of chess in Speak Memory or that bizarre short story The Vane Sisters - and illustrates how they help to see into the mystery of some of Nab's more complex works.

After reading Pale Fire twice, I naively thought that i understood it (yes that Bodkin in the University was suspicious, and yes the existence of internation thug Gradus i had previosly questioned) but i was only approaching the intitial layerings of this beatifully layered world. Im not saying that i am necessarily convinced with all Boyd has to say, but he has dazzled me with his insights and made me fully realize that I am far from understanding fully this work of art. It is to Nabokov's supreme credit that he could create a world that seems as immense, varied, and impossible to appreciate fully enough as the one we live in everyday.

Great book- Even better than Nabokov himself, at times

Having read what little Nabokov anyone has read (Lolita) I exchanged this book for a Bogart biography I received as birthday present. I was hooked and, having read the whole book through in a few days, I bought the second volume and I wasn't let down. The book is a jewel and Nabokov becomes almost as close an acquaintance of the reader as Johnson became per Boswell's book.

The elegiac childhood that Nabokov enjoyed as the son of an upper class family of political liberals and Russian patriots is hard to imagine given the awfulness of Russian history since the 1905. After the death of his grandfather Nabokov became a millionaire at age 10. His family was close knit and loving (which may explain his deep love for his wife VÃ©ra and his son Dmitri, named after Vladimir's father). The Nabokovs managed to escape Russia from their Crimean summer house and eventually ended up in Germany, where they endured hardship and persecution. Nabokov's father, who had been an Education Minister during Kerensky's brief democratic administration, was murdered by an extreme-nationalist from the "Black Hundreds", a paramilitary organisation. Amazingly, Nabokov never bored to learn German although he lived in Germany for twenty years because he felt German would destroy his gift for Russian. His French was flawless, though (he died in French Switzerland). His meeting of the beautiful, brilliant VÃ©ra is touching, a rare moment of perfection on this cursed globe, and they became a very close couple. Mrs Nabokov was much more than a wife: she was a soul-mate and a loving collaborator in all Nabokov's efforts. Nabokov, in spite of his poverty managed to continue to live with aristocratic non-chalance and was always able to afford extensive and elaborate holidays that nowadays are only possible for the very well-to-do. The book ends as the Nabokovs and young Dmitri move to America, barely escaping France before the German invasion. Better times were yet to come, and they are aptly told in the second volume.

Most of the books Nabokov wrote in this period were in Russian and thus they have not been as widely divulged as his books in English. I can't appreciate their quality, not reading Russian, but Boyd notes many references of experts which regarded them as some of the best writing in Russian in the 20th century, and more deserving of a Nobel prize than either Pasternak or Solzhenitzn.

The title of my review will probably be deplored by many Nabokov fans, but in fact I was deeply attracted to Nabokov's elegance, charm and tolerance, by his revulsion to snobbery (he was always annoyed by some Europeans' disdain for US culture or some Russian emigrÃ©s' disgust at the accent of Jewish Russian speakers), by his unerring political sense that led him to distrust most extremisms of the last century (he was one of the few important authors not to have written blatant political nonsense), and very much enjoyed his curious interest in butterflies (his fantasy of a lavish, multi-volume Encyclopedia of butterflies of the Russian Empire smacks of Borges to me), and his extensive work at Harvard concerning them (he does have a species to his name). Boyd's descriptions led to me seek Nabokov's literal translation of Pushkin's epical poem, Eugene Onegin (I found the translation unreadable, as many people have), and, in spite of Boyd's wonderful summaries, I couldn't really get into some of Nabokov' other works in English (Ada or Ardor and Pale Fire I thought too modernist for my taste- his literary criticism was great, although I winced at his evident distaste for Jane Austen- and shared his love for Dickens). But Nabokov is as great a writer as he as a biographer's subject, and Boyd's book is probably the best literary biography after The Life of Johnson. I heartily recommend it (it's great even if you haven't actually read Nabokov).

One of the best biographies I've ever read

Brian Boyd's scope and research in this book are just outstanding. I'm not usually that interested in biographies of writers, often the biographer does not relate their life to their literature in a way that interests me, but Nabokov is one of my favorite writers, so I thought I'd give this book a try. First you should note that it is a huge book that spans a large time frame, but you shouldn't be put off by the size, because Boyd's prose is very succinct and the chapters are manageable. It's clear to me that he appreciates Nabokov's works, as the best chapters are the ones detailing the periods of time when Nabokov is writing his works. There is so much great background information to be found here, that Nabokov wrote on index cards, the road trips that influenced Lolita, and Nabokov's relationship with his wife, Vera. This is what literary biographies should be like. I highly recommend this to any fans of Nabokov who want to learn more about his life and his writing.

Brilliant

Both volumes of this set are excellent. This is the way literary biography should be done. It's so good, in fact, that you wouldn't necessarily have to be a huge Nabokov fan to want to read both books. (Of course, I am a diehard Nabokovian, so I raced through them even more eagerly.) Bravo to Brian Boyd.

wonderful and irreplacable

Here in an elegant paperback of modest proportions is a revised edition of the correspondence of two of America's greatest writers, containing a few newly located letters. Edmund Wilson was already an established writer when Nabokov immigrated to this country around 1940, and Wilson's role in introducing Nabokov around and getting him writing assignments and teaching positions in America was crucial to Nabokov at a critical time. The two men write in fascinating manner about literature, life, writing gigs, and life. The correspondence is sad, too, because the two men seem almost willfully to misunderstand each other on such seemingly innnocuous issues as the nature of Russian and English prosody. Also Wilson as an erstwhile Communist was fascinated with Russia, attempted to learn the language, but thought he knew it better than he did, even trying to correct Nabokov who of course was a native speaker, not to mention a great writer, in Russian. Toward the end of their friendship, Wilson published a memoir that revealed his jealousy of Nabokov, and there was a break, only healed when Wilson was near death. Simon Karlinsky has written a wonderful introduction to the correspondence, that may be worth the price of the book in itself. Nabokov thought highly of Karlinsky, and Karlinsky explains the Russian background of early life behind some of the stances of Nabokov that we Americans find it hardest to understand. For example, why did Nabokov refuse any social role to the artist? For writers, for Nabokov or Wilson lovers, and I count myself both, this is an essential and irreplacable book

Fascinating!

When two opinionated men with such different tastes as Nabokov and Wilson write letters over a twenty year period, the result is going to be exciting. Their arguing about Faulkner and Norman Douglas or the gender of French nouns gives the friendship a bite. And we also see that each got more than friendship out of the relationship--Wilson got lessons in Russian and Nabokov got a boost into the American literary world. A fascinating read.

Backhanded homage, Bloom's agon

Nabokov claims to dislike Don Quixote and considers the novel 'crewl' yet spent a significant portion of time analyzing the novel and teaching it. I am reminded of Tolstoy's dismissal of Shakespeare and his dissection of King Lear. Orwell correctly pointed out that, among these giants, bothering to grapple with another's legend so completely is a nod to greatness, one doesn't bother to kill a knat w/ a sledgehammer.

A Breath of Fresh Air, by fermed

What Nabokov does to that venerable Don Q. is to rip it apart, disembowel it, resect the viscera, muscle and bones, and demonstrate how it has all been fitted together, how its various part work and (more importantly) how and why some parts don't work at all.

I admit to having had a life-long aversion to Don Q., an aversion that is rooted in early efforts to make me read "children's versions" of the book by guise of educating me. I suspect that such dislike is widely shared by those who have dared attempt the original text, or even its modern translations. Those who love the story are likely to have limited their sampling to the musical version of the book: "Man of La Mancha."

And so it was truly a pleasure to follow Nabokov in his extraordinary feat of dissection. Nobody in nearly 400 years of Spanish critical appraisals of this awful book has ever come close to exposing the work as thoroughly and meticulously as Nabokov does in the six lectures that he gave at Harvard in 1952. Spanish critics of Cervantes are mainly hagiographers, incapable of noting the Emperor's nakedness. They are apt to compare Cervantes to Shakespeare (don't they wish!), a comparion which Nabokov insightfully reduces to this:

"The only matter in which Cervantes and Shakespeare are equals is the matter of influence, of spiritual irrigation -- I have in view the long shadow cast upon receptive posterity of a created image which may continue to live independently from the book itself. Shakespeare's plays, however, will continue to live apart from the shadow they project." By implication, Don Q. would not.

Nabokov even exposes the canard, much repeated in Spain, that Cervantes and Shakespeare died on the same day in 1616. They did not. It is true that each died on April 23 of that year, but they lived in different calendars, with a ten day gap between their true dates of defunction.

Before embarking on his lectures, Nabokov abstracted each of the 126 chapters of the two volumes, citing their essential elements. These abstracts are included in the book. In addition, he surveyed the work noting Don Q's "victories" and "defeats," a monumental task which lays bare each of his encounters and battles (40 all told), each scored as a "victory" or a "defeat." He comments, in amazement, about one critic who had said "Never, by any chance, does Don Quixote win."

Not so. When all the battles are added up the score is precisely 20/20. Don Q. won as many as he lost.

When Nabokov called this "one of the most bitter and barbarous books even penned" it did not gain him friends among the professional academics of the ivory towers; but the observation is true and constitutes one of the many explanatory notes about the book that allows the readers to understand their dislike (if they have a dislike) for this work.

Only six lectures. One of the great anatomical feats by that wizard Nabokov. It is not necessary to know the Qixote in order to enjoy this tour de force; in addition, anyone who writes fiction will love (and benefit from) the type of deep structural analysis to which Nobokov subjects this novel. Nabokov's handywork is a beautiful excercise in education "as it should be," and therefore it is worth the time and effort to read it.

Incredible writer doesn't deserve dirty old man rep

Picture Vladimir Nabokov. In the hall of mirrors that is popular culture, he is the dirty man who wrote the dirty book "Lolita," about a 12-year-old "nymphet" -- he invented the term, by the way -- and her affair with an older man.

Angle the mirror another way, and he is one of the founders of the modernist novel, which to some people -- myself included -- that's a damning phrase. "Modernist" and "post-modernist" literature seems a) self-referencing to the point of egotism; b) dedicated to the advancement of decedent themes, and to score big points as a writer, pile it on, brother; and c) obsessed with the discovery that the "arts" -- whether books, pictures or movies -- are artificial, and that we use them to create, well, books, pictures and movies.

Unless you think I am making it up, here's an example drawn from real life: a few years back, a Charlotte museum mounted an exhibition of a painter's work, one of which was a canvas whose front side was turned toward the wall, exposing a paint-stained frame. A newspaper reviewer breathlessly informed the reading public that the artist did this "to inform the viewer that most paintings are recetangular."

Now, a reasonably intelligent person could probably reach that conclusion without much effort, but discoveries like these seem to drive those who tread into the "modern" era of art.

So Vlaidmir Nabokov's reputation is caught between two very opposing poles. He either panders to the worst tastes of man, or the worst tastes of art.

Fortunately, he is neither, and the Library of America agrees. The non-profit publisher throws its reputation behind Nabokov as a writer worth reading by publishing all of his English-language novels in three volumes. The first volume covers his work from 1941 to 1951: "The Real Life of Sebastian Knight," "Bend Sinister," and his memoir, "Speak, Memory." The middle work contains the notorious "Lolita," "Pale Fire," "Pnin," and the "Lolita" screenplay Nabokov wrote for Stanley Kubrick. The concluding volume contains "Ada," "Transparent Things," and "Look at the Harlequins!"

But of these works, only "Lolita" stands alone. It is not a dirty book, and one should pity those American and British tourists who, in the mid-1950s, bought the pale olive-green two-volume paperbacks published in Paris by the notorious Olympia Press. Those expecting frankly pornographic stories like "The Story of O" and "How to Do It" would have been sorely disappointed in Humbert Humbert's self-confessed defense of his rape (not "seduction," which implies a willingness to be seduced) and exploitation of Delores Haze, "Lolita, light of my life,fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta."

Even Olympia's publisher was taken in, telling a mutual friend that he though Nabokov was Humbert, and that he was attempting to popularize nymphet love.

What does become apparent after reading through the volumes (and aided by an excellent two-volume biography by Brian Boyd) is that there is much more to Nabokov than meets the eye. Delving deeper in his works reveals a funhouse hall of mirrors that can lead to a definitive end, and there's not much in modernist fiction that could substantiate that claim.

What sets Nabokov off from other writers is his use of the language. Raised in Tsarist Russia, Nabokov was a child prodigy who was taught Russian, French and English at an early age. His prose is elegent, his command of English astounding. It's close to the prose of Henry James, but except for the foreign phrases, which the Library editions provide translations and explanations, far more understandable.

Descriptions pulled at random from "Lolita" ring as if English was a newly minted language, capable of expressing humor ("The bed was a frightful mess with overtones of potato chips") and snobbish anger ("Lo had grabbed some comics from the back seat and, mobile white-bloused, one brown elbow out of the window, was deep in the current adventure of some clout or clown").

Even, when Humbert meets his Lolita long after she escaped his clutches, when he believes that he still loves her, heart-rending: "In her washed-out grey eyes, strangely spectacled, our poor romance was for a moment reflected, pondered upon, and dismissed like a dull party, like a rainy picnic to which only the dullest bores had come, like a humdrum exercise, like a bit of dry mud caking her childhood."

This is not casual reading, but neither is it reading-as-masochistic exercise, with furrowed brows and an exasperated flipping of once-read pages. There is a surface meaning that is easily accessible, but there are deeper meanings, in-jokes, ironies and moral questions worthy of consideration.

The best volume of the three is the second, which contains "Lolita," the screenplay he wrote for Stanley Kubrick (which was not used), the comic novel (for Nabokov at least) "Pnin" and "Pale Fire."

But good works can be found in the other volumes as well. "The Real Life of Sebastian Knight," in the first volume, is the author's account of his biographical research on his half-brother, the brilliant writer Sebastian Knight, who had died recently of a heart condition after writing a half-dozen novels. It bears all the hallmarks of the post-modernist novel replete with a self-absorption with writers, spurious biography, an unreliable narrator and ironical references. "Speak, Memory," also in the first volume, is Nabokov's memoirs about growing up in Russia.

Indeed, the only disadvantage to reading Nabokov is that it may cause a nagging niggling in the back of your head, while reading novels in the future, that they just cannot compare to those composed by the American from Russia.

Nabokov!

This collection of novels and a memoir is a must for anyone interested in twentieth century literature. Nabokov is a giant, a superstar, a Freud-bashing genius--order now!

Nabokov a hard act to follow for other serious writers