Invitation to a Beheading

Libro kafkiano, even though by his own admission Nabokov had never read Kafka before writing it. The atmosphere is very similar to that of The Trial, where however the totalitarian state in the background is much more palpable.

Evidently, it is I who have some problem with Nabokov's style, because exactly as with Lolita, I have not been able to really get into the described fabric: everything remains a bit hazy to me, everything is interpretable and the author's writing, which is very baroque, does not help in the search for concrete reference points.

The sense of oppression remains. Nabokov is perhaps second only to Dostoyevsky in describing the sensation felt by someone who knows that soon he will be executed.

In Ulitzkaja's novel "Das grüne Zelt" from 2010, a group of literature-loving friends comes across Nabokov's novel "Einladung zur Enthauptung" from 1935/36. Regarding the reading, it is said: "The hands trembled, the heart stood still. How to fit all this in? The book changed their entire world view."

Needless to say, after these words, I could hardly do otherwise than acquire Nabokov's early, albeit already ninth, novel, which the fictional exiled Russian wrote in Berlin, sandwiched between two dictatorships.

I confess right from the start: This novel did not change my world view. Presumably, it has a great deal to do with the fact that the availability of even subversive and experimental literature is now different than it was then, in the 1960s, when Ulitzkaja's friends had to fear being dragged away by the KGB with every samizdat reading.

Who is now invited, and why must he be decapitated?

Cincinnatus lives in a society that is not further defined but has strong grotesque features. His crime, which is held against him, is his lack of transparency. He, to the great annoyance of all, is opaque, as impenetrable as light. We could also say more clearly: Cincinnatus' crime is to be a human being.

However, with this superficial level of the opaque, the crime of our protagonist is not yet exhausted. In linguistics and philosophy, the "opaque context" defines speech acts whose semantic content is characterized by the knowledge of the speaker instance and thus aims at the individuality of language.

For example, if Mäxchen does not know when Nabokov was born, one cannot replace his sentence: "The style of Nabokov is brilliant." with: "The style of the one born in 1899 is brilliant." We don't know if Mäxchen knows. Therefore: Opaque context. In literature, of course, a prominent basic idea and a gateway to empathetic reading.

In any case, Cincinnatus is put into a kind of prison cell, where he is regularly visited by the guard Rodion, the director, and then especially by Monsieur Pierre, all of whom annoy him immensely because they perform a strange play in which he, Cincinnatus, is assigned the role of the repentant sinner, which he rejects, however. Much more reminiscent of Beckett than Kafka figures, all the secondary characters are carriers of feigned behaviors. They carry the puppet world from which Cincinnatus would like to escape. Beyond vanities, we readers do not learn what motivation the secondary characters have for their actions, they are simply as they are. Completely transparent, but in this transparency without any meaningful characterization.

These strange scenes are interrupted by Cincinnatus' serious reflections. He would like to write down what concerns him but fears not finding a real person as a reader. The style of the one who died in Switzerland in 1977 is brilliant. Rarely has an author been worse at hiding how much smarter he is than the reader. Again and again, I am speechless in Nabokov's books about the variety of levels of reference (which usually have to be revealed to me by an extensive appendix or private research) and the accuracy of his linguistic means:

"Yet despite everything, I am chained to this table like a cup to a well." (p. 102) Thus speaks one who knows that he must slobber and fail.

"And lightning printed the shadows of the grating bars in unexpected places." (p. 140) The "unexpected places" are beautiful to kneel before.

The horned husband thinks of his wife Marthe: "Tell me, how many hands have touched the pulp that has grown so abundantly around your hard, bitter little soul?" (p. 154)

Whether Cincinnatus ultimately manages to escape his decapitation and become one of the transparent ones or what Nabokov still has in store for his hero - find out.

As always with satirical literature that contains too many grotesque scenes of inauthenticity, I quickly get bored. Linguistically, however, it is very good. And a discussion of the Phaidon dialogue is also supposed to be in here, but the annotations informed me about it, and I didn't notice anything. ;-) Certainly a reading that is worth a second exploration.

Death is not simply the loss of an individual.

It is a profound and far-reaching event that leads to the disintegration of a world.

When a person passes away, the world they inhabited, with all its unique relationships, memories, and experiences, begins to crumble.

Their family and friends are left to grapple with the void left by their absence.

The daily routines and interactions that were once taken for granted are suddenly disrupted.

The shared history and traditions that were part of that person's world may fade away.

Death forces those left behind to face the reality of a changed world and find a way to move forward without the presence of the one they have lost.

It is a reminder of the fragility and impermanence of life, and a catalyst for reflection and growth.

While the loss of an individual is deeply felt, the disintegration of their world serves as a powerful testament to the impact they had during their lifetime.

This was truly great. I have a deep affection for Nabokov, especially when his prose isn't overly pompous.

However, if I hear one more person label this work as `Kafkaesque`, I might just give them a good smack!

Believe it or not, generally speaking, I'm not a fan of the absurd. But in this novel, I absolutely adored the absurdity and the sense of helplessness. Just imagine being condemned to death for an indefinable crime, not knowing when exactly you will be executed (in Japan, apparently, pretty much no one knows when someone on death row dies until the actual day, yikes!). And having to endure quite a few quirky characters in one of the most bizarre prisons I've ever encountered through reading. And mind you, I've read The Enormous Room by E.E Cummings!

A few things were relatively easy to predict, but I won't mention them to avoid potential spoilers. Still, it didn't really detract from the reading experience. I must admit that the ending was unexpected coming from an author like Nabokov. Fans might be a little disappointed in that regard.

Anyway, if you're seeking something a little strange yet still has literary value, then this is definitely worth looking into. Others might say it drags on here and there, but that's just the way Nabokov is. He grows on you gradually like that.

If you have a penchant for detailed descriptions, aren't overly concerned with a traditional plot, and don't mind empathizing with a character trapped in a strange state of limbo, waiting for execution due to the supposed crime of moral turpitude, then this book might hold some appeal for you.

Here's a brief summary: Cincinnatus C. has been condemned to death by beheading and is now biding his time until his execution. He is also desperate to know when it will occur, but his jailers offer only evasive answers. Why is he facing this fate? Apparently, it's because he is more "real" than those around him and can't hide it.

The book contains numerous descriptions of the gardens where Cincinnatus met his unfaithful wife, the town, and the tower where he is imprisoned. These descriptions are often repetitive. There are also a cast of absurd characters, such as the jailer, the lawyer, and the librarian, each with their own idiosyncrasies. The librarian is dusty and taciturn, while the jailer enjoys feeding a spider. The most fully developed character is Cincinnatus' fellow prisoner, Pierre, a round, extremely strong man who can perform acrobatics with his false teeth and is determined to befriend Cincinnatus despite the latter's lack of enthusiasm. However, there isn't much more to the story. There is, for example, no real plot to speak of.

If I had liked Cincinnatus, it might not have mattered so much, but I didn't. He was a joyless and feeble character, annoying both his jailers and me. By the end, I was actually rooting for the beheading. I won't reveal the ending, although the blurb on the back of the book does.

Fortunately, the book is short. It had just enough of something that kept me wondering what the whole thing was about, but only just. I'm not sure who I would recommend this book to. Perhaps fans of existential absurdity would appreciate it.

Vladimir Nabokov's "Invitation to a Beheading" is a remarkable work that stands among the great 20th-century novels exploring the individual's struggle against absurd totalitarianism. “All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.” This quote by Nabokov himself reflects the unique nature of his writing. The story follows Cincinnatus C, an enigmatic prisoner punished by a seemingly transparent society for his supposed gnostical turpitude. With a Gogol-like playfulness, a Kafkaesque absurdity, and a linguistic inventiveness that is distinctly Nabokov's, the novel delves into the various ways the state and society attempt to destroy or force conformity on those with a different vision. Nabokov's description of Cincinnatus' experiences in the totalitarian nightmare is both vivid and thought-provoking. The image of Nabokov's violin playing in the void adds an element of mystery and pathos to the story. As we read, we are reminded to beware of those who transgress social norms, for their days may be numbered, yet also infinite in the sense that their actions and ideas can have a lasting impact. "Invitation to a Beheading" is a must-read for anyone interested in exploring the complex relationship between the individual and society in the face of totalitarianism.

I see that the review on the GR home page for Invitation to a Beheading compares it to Kafka. It's evident that Nabokov heard this comparison rather more often than he desired, and was extremely tired of it. In the foreword to my edition, he makes the following comment:

"Emigré reviewers, who were both puzzled and liked it, believed they could detect a "Kafkaesque" element in it, unaware that I had no knowledge of German, was completely ignorant of modern German literature, and had not yet read any French or English translations of Kafka's works. No doubt, there do exist certain stylistic connections between this book and, for example, my earlier stories (or my later Bend Sinister); but there are none between it and Le chateau or The Trial."

It's indeed true that the word "Kafkaesque" is dreadfully overused. I have a particular fondness for the postcoital scene in Annie Hall featuring Woody Allen and Shelley Duvall:

REPORTER (Looking down at him)
I hope you don't mind that I took so long to finish.

ALVY (Sighing)
Oh, no, no, don't be... tsch... don't be silly. You know, (Yawning)
I'm startin' it - I'm startin' to get some feeling back in my jaw now.

REPORTER
Oh, sex with you is really a Kafkaesque experience.

ALVY
Oh, tsch, thank you. H'm.

REPORTER
I mean that as a compliment.

Leaving the book to introduce itself:

From an early age, miraculously realizing the danger, Cincinnatus carefully refined his ability to hide some of his differences. Without missing the glances of others and creating the strange impression of being only a dark obstacle in this world of transparent souls, he still learned to blend in. To this end, he resorted to a complex system of something like optical illusions. But if he let his guard down for a moment, if he didn't pay such close attention to himself, the tricks of his skillfully illuminated mental planes would suddenly raise a commotion around him.

What is not named does not exist. Unfortunately, everything has been named.

— Just because of that tone…
— I was sentenced to death, said Cincinnatus, knowing. Next!

Like children pressing and releasing their ears, amusing themselves with the renewal of the sensation of the world

And I would also write about the constant tremor… and that part of my thoughts always lingers around an invisible umbilical cord that connects the world to something — what it is, I won't say yet…

Squeaking slippers

— I pose the question more broadly: does there exist at all, can there exist in this world at least some kind of assurance, certainty for anything — or is even the very idea of a guarantee unknown here?

I lived for thirty years among almost palpable illusions, pretending that I was alive and real — but now that I'm trapped, there's no reason to deceive you. At least I'll test the entire insubstantiality of this given world in practice.

Cincinnatus and his guest were left alone. Cincinnatus opened the book and immersed himself in it, that is, he reread the first phrase.

I know something. I know something. But it's so hard to express! No, I can't… I want to throw it all away — and at the same time — such a feeling that you're boiling, rising like milk, that you'll be churned up if you don't express it somehow. Oh no — I'm not betraying my personality, I'm not seizing a flimsy rag with my soul in a dark room; no, no desires except the desire to express myself — against all the worldly chaos. How afraid I am. Fear is disgusting to me. But no one can take me away from myself. I'm afraid — and here I'm losing some thread that I just felt so tangibly. Where is it? It's disappeared! I tremble over the paper, I bite down to the graphite, I torture myself with my back to hide from the door through which a penetrating gaze wakes me in my body — and now I feel like I'm going to smear, tear up what I've written… By mistake, I ended up here — not exactly in prison, but in this terrible, ornate world, a fine specimen of skillful craftsmanship, but in reality, it's a misfortune, a horror, a madness, a mistake — and here comes the giant wooden hammer pounding its blows on me.

Alas, no one has taught me this trick, and the ancient, inborn art of writing, which didn't require learning when it blazed and flared like a fire, has long been forgotten. Now it seems as impossible as music once drawn from a miraculous royal, which pompously illuminated or suddenly burst the world with huge, shining, whole arcs — I imagine all this so clearly myself, but you're not me, and here lies the irreparable misfortune.

— I knew without knowing, I knew without surprise, I knew as you know yourself, I knew what cannot be known, perhaps I knew even more clearly than I know now.

At the meeting, the entire family of Marfinka arrived with all their furniture.

A weak infusion of darkness in the kilos… the darkness has hidden at the bottom…

He snorted loudly and said with his thin mustache twitching

I've noticed, Rodrigues Ivanovich, that for a man sentenced to death, it's hardest to forget a woman, the delicious female body.

There was also Cincinnatus, who was twirling a butterfly in his fingers

Immediately abandoned his smile

Quickly, unclearly, without finishing his words — like a fleeing person leaving an incomplete trace of his footprint — Cincinnatus wrote

I need at least a theoretical possibility of having a reader, because it will truly be better to deceive them.