Nabokov is where literature begins and where literature ends. Such is also this novel.

Simultaneously, it is both an awakening to human mortality, a critique of society, a meditation on gnosticism, an allusion to Socrates, a wonderful poem, a tragicomic representation, and a series of intricate, blooming dreams of a vagabond, an exile. Everything can be found. Nabokov plays, as only he knows how, both with words and with characters, and also with me, because if there is anything I hate, it is that loudness-that-is-arrogance, and Sinsinatus (like Nabokov himself) is on the verge of the same, but he is also rejected, and I no longer know what to think.

I expected something like Camus' The Stranger, and that's why I postponed reading for so long (because, despite the three stars given, I can't finish The Stranger with horror), or something like Kafka (whom I know I wouldn't finish; and Nabokov clearly rejects all similarities in the preface and suggests that people actually read the novel), but I found something completely different. Where Lolita was a palpable novel analogous to the production of some film, written by the hand of a terrible puppeteer, Invitation to a Beheading is a kaleidoscope, and in it one can find everything, and nothing, because that's what the novel itself boils down to. That is also Nabokov. And (almost, so as not to exaggerate, in such an affect) no one is his equal.

5+

A fireworks display of "crazy" ideas, thus of thoughts, as they might come to a condemned man. It quickly becomes clear that the "imprisonment" is a quasi-inner one, with fantasies waiting to burst into real life. But what then must be "decapitated"? Well, the ordinary thoughts, the conventions of daily life, the function of language as mere contact maintenance, the Keep Smiling of everyday busyness... - all this disturbs the "opaque", the desired authenticity that the author (!) Cincinnatus/Nabokov has the task of penetrating. For this, of course, the words must also be purified of the conventions and freed from their "glittering" on the "square of sensations" (where the decapitation is to take place publicly - sic!). What needs to be regained is the pre-school childishness, the naivety of the (small) human being as his true wholeness as a human, the state in which words still designated things and did not degenerate into phrases to be learned by heart about the world of things (flowers in the school garden). For this, one must look behind the slimy friendship of the "fellow humans" (prison director, executioner, etc.) and recognize the falsity of kinship "love" (father-in-law, mother); for this, one must also experience the infidelity of the wife as a phenomenon subordinate to her hollowness and banal conventionality. Her supposed honesty, after all, she neither hides her affairs nor her emotions from Cincinnatus, is just another mask of lovelessness - she offers the prison staff her charms just as routinely as payment for the permission to visit, as she wants to do the last favor for her husband ("but do it quickly"). One can get entangled in this false dream world full of dummies of reality by taking it for the real world without thinking about it, although the real life lies beyond it. The way that the prisoner has to take back is laborious and full of fears, for he does not know what comes after. But in the end, everything is very simple: Get up and go your way - and already the fears and the once-feared figures of the illusory world become smaller and smaller. One can almost hear the Homeric laughter "from over there" after Cincinnatus has reached the other shore. - The question remains why so many reviewers want to recognize the experience of two emerging dictatorships in the text, although Nabokov has expressly - and, as I believe, ironically - left this to us himself in the preface to the English edition. And then one looks in the text, if one does not take the date of origin ("1933") and the publication date ("1937") as external ciphers for the thing itself, and looks, and looks, and finds... - little: Once there is talk of "functionaries", although the types then described are anything but Soviet communists, and once a uniform, albeit rather dexterous, "red youth" appears as a counter-image to the jeunesse dorée. That was it then already. On the other hand, the rest of the characters clearly belong to the typical repertoire of false and banal bourgeoisie, yes not even the bourgeoisie but (even worse!) the petty bourgeoisie. Even their mean artistic taste is caricatured in the pictures of the fortress, their mean (pseudo)"romantic" (and thus kitschy) literary taste in the picture of the naked woman with fishnet stockings up to the... and a rose in her mouth. Other moments are allusions to dusty educated bourgeoisie in the picture of the librarian suffering from increasing exhaustion, who apparently no longer has too many readers in his good library. One should expect blonde Germanic Valkyries or posters with pictures of leaders, marching party youth or something else "socialist" or "fascist". But there is nothing there. Only the fear of the mother and that of the wife of being held responsible for the actions of their relatives, because of their possible complicity, reminds one of the dictatorships. But don't they also remind one just as much of the behavior of the bourgeois press on the "MARKETplace of sensations" (forgive me the allusion to a title by Kisch)? What happens to Cincinnatus, who does not want to play the usual game, is not the enforcement of the will of a dictator: "Let the will of the public be done." (p. 143) And so the book is warmly recommended to anyone who wants to be a little scared about himself and about the time in which we (still) live. That one can do this is the lasting achievement of the author!

“Invitation to a Beheading” is one of my new all-time favorite works of fiction. It is abundantly rich thematically and stylistically, with fantastic prose and narrative structure. We begin with Cincinnatus C., sentenced to death for the crime of “gnostical turpitude” or “opacity”. In plainer terms, his uncommon individuality stands in contrast to a world of radical uniformity. He is sent to a fortress to await the fall of the axe. Day by day, Cincinnatus pleads to know the date of his impending beheading but receives no answer. The reader soon realizes that each of the twenty chapters represents a day in his remaining life, starting with a literal death sentence counting down from twenty, structurally framing the congruent theme of inevitable death.

In his cell, Cincinnatus is given pencil and paper to record his thoughts. Through his imaginative mind, we shift between the physical and metaphysical, as he internally transcends his confined external reality. At times, he is in the prison; at others, strolling through the Tamara Gardens, a place symbolizing freedom. As the novel progresses, we see a resemblance between the locations in his mind and those outside the fortress. Reflecting on his surroundings, Cincinnatus concludes that the world he inhabits is an illusion, and beyond it lies a higher reality of authenticity. Despite fearing his execution, he suspects that death may be the key to reaching this other reality.

Within the fortress, Cincinnatus encounters an unusual cast of characters. Rodion, the jailer, is lively and outspoken, and seems to care for Cincinnatus’ well-being. Rodrig Ivanovich, the director, is relatively conceited and believes Cincinnatus should enjoy his remaining time. Roman Vissarionovich, his lawyer, is unhelpful and insists that Cincinnatus is the strange one. These three characters slyly interchange roles and costumes. Emmie, a young girl with devious intents, is seemingly the daughter of Rodrig but is also sometimes referred to as Rodion’s. Marthe, Cincinnatus’ wife, initially elicits his desperate longing but later reveals sinister actions. Cecilia C., who claims to be his mother, shows a glimmer of authenticity at the end. The prison Librarian also displays aspects of legitimacy, and M’sieur Pierre, who embodies the novel’s vital themes, is first introduced as a fellow prisoner and neighbor but later revealed to be Cincinnatus’ executioner, representing a banal external society while Cincinnatus represents internal autonomous freedom.

The novel has several symbolic motifs. The pencil Cincinnatus is given represents his remaining life, growing shorter as the story progresses. The spider, “official friend of the jailed”, and its web symbolize the illusion Cincinnatus is trapped in. The moth, which Rodion brings as a treat for the spider, represents Cincinnatus and foreshadows his exit. These motifs spatially and temporally coalesce to create a tightly structured composition, leading to the novel’s inevitable end.

The intrinsic themes of consciousness and reality have further anagogical connotations. The epigraph by Pierre Delalande foreshadows the world Cincinnatus inhabits. Consciousness gives us our unique metaphysical existence but is limited by death. Cincinnatus’ sentence for “gnostical turpitude” relates to the concept of gnosis, or knowledge of internal truth bringing salvation. Through death, the separation of spirit and flesh, Cincinnatus transcends to the other world. In “Invitation to a Beheading”, Nabokov emphasizes the significance of our ability to invoke creative will through our metaphysical consciousness, as personified by Cincinnatus. In a world of perpetual external change, our internal self can be a place of truth and solace.

If the process of Kafka were a good book, it would probably be something like this.

We are all a bit like Cincinnatus C., doing what we can within a cell, an environment, or a world that is both absurd and surreal.

Kafka's works are known for their complex and often disturbing themes, which explore the human condition in a unique and thought-provoking way.

In this imagined book, we might follow the protagonist as they navigate a strange and often incomprehensible world, facing challenges and obstacles that seem insurmountable.

Despite the chaos and confusion, the protagonist persists, driven by an inner need to make sense of their situation and find meaning in their existence.

Perhaps through their experiences, they will discover something about themselves and the world around them that they never expected.

This book would be a fascinating exploration of the human psyche and the power of the imagination in the face of adversity.

**Nabokov’s Cave**

In his allegory of the Cave, Plato posited a limit on human knowledge, suggesting that we only see shadows of reality. Two millennia later, Immanuel Kant took it a step further, claiming that we can't even properly apprehend those shadows, as their 'true selves' are beyond comprehension. However, in *Invitation to a Beheading*, Nabokov offers an alternative to these classical, and inherently dismal and nihilistic, philosophical views.

For Nabokov, the world is not hidden behind an epistemological veil. Instead, reality is so vividly present, "a tumult of truth," so abundantly and richly 'there' that it is effectively infinite. What we experience is not an erroneous perception but an overwhelming abundance of perception that is too vast to describe adequately.
Nabokov's equivalent of Plato's Cave is a prison cell in a fortress at an indeterminate future time. This is no ordinary prison, and its inmate, Cincinnatus, is no ordinary prisoner. The prison provides him with three square meals a day and a good roof over his head. In fact, Cincinnatus's cell is described as 'deluxe,' and his food is of the same quality as the director's. The prison also houses an outstanding library, which he uses intensively. The staff are kind and attend to his every physical need, from entertainment to regular bathing.
One could easily become attached to such a prison, and Nabokov hints that most people do when he writes about "his [Cincinnatus’s] jailers, who in fact were everyone." However, Cincinnatus is still stressed, not because of his death sentence but because he can't get a confirmation of the date on which it will be executed. He finds this intolerable, stating, "the compensation for a death sentence is knowledge of the exact hour when one is to die. A great luxury, but one that is well earned. However, I am being left in that ignorance which is tolerable only to those living at liberty." In short, Cincinnatus's predicament is universal.
Despite his imprisonment and pending execution, Cincinnatus finds a sort of focused freedom. It gives him time to dream, recollect, and write about his life. He can "see things clearly through the prison walls" that were previously invisible, and he feels compelled to express them, saying, "I have the feeling of boiling and rising, a tickling, which may drive you mad if you do not express it somehow." But there is simply too much to express, not just of his own life but also of the life he has suppressed and the dreams that are part of his experiential reality, much of which he has forced himself to forget. Facing death, he still feels, "I am the one among you who is alive," but his life is overwhelming in its detail and complexity, effectively infinite. Even the biography of an oak tree from the library consists of more than 3000 pages and is still incomplete. Therefore, he tells the reader, "I have lived an agonizing life, and I would like to describe that agony to you – but I am obsessed by the fear that there will not be time enough."
Cincinnatus is justifiably convicted of the crime of "gnostical turpitude." This offense is not one of moral depravity or a lack of discernment between good and evil. It is his persistent inability to appreciate conventional reality. Driven by either an inherent artistic muse or perhaps guilt from his previous attempts to conform, he must write, and write, and write, before it's too late, even though his writing will remain incomplete, composed of only fragmentary descriptions from his imagination.
As Cincinnatus pursues the expression of his perceptual overload, he discovers that the world is entirely mad, and not just mad but evangelistically so. Everyone in it tries to convince him to be reasonable and submit to reality. In conversation, his warden is enticing, suggesting that he might be reprieved. But Cincinnatus refuses, and when he does, he is rebuked with an apt biblical reference, "You offer him kingdoms, and he sulks."
Cincinnatus has no Freudian Death Wish. Quite the opposite, his fear of death overwhelms even his drive to write. Ultimately, it is the conquering of this fear that gives him some sort of freedom. This is unlikely to be a pleasing ending for "the disciples of the Viennese witch-doctor [and] their grotesque world of communal guilt and progressive education," nor for those philosophers who argue that the world is alien to perceptive human beings.

Conclusion

Nabokov's exploration of Cincinnatus's situation in the prison cell challenges our traditional understandings of knowledge, reality, and freedom. By presenting a world that is both overwhelming and maddening, Nabokov forces us to question our own perceptions and the limits of our understanding. Cincinnatus's struggle to express his experiences and find meaning in the face of death serves as a powerful reminder of the human condition and our eternal quest for truth and freedom.

As someone who typically has numerous gripes and nitpicks regarding Nabokov, I must be the first to confess that on occasion, it seemed as if God himself was speaking through Nabokov's prose. His style is invariably sufficient to keep me engaged with his books. It is also beneficial that this particular one is frequently quite humorous, in the manner that Barthelme is funny in, for example, Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby. The unique charm of Nabokov's writing lies not only in its exquisite style but also in its ability to elicit laughter in unexpected ways. His words have a magical quality that draws the reader in and keeps them captivated from beginning to end. Even those who are critical of his work cannot deny the power and beauty of his prose. It is a testament to his genius as a writer.

This was the very first Nabokov novel that I delved into, and I cannot recommend it highly enough as an excellent introduction to his works.

Although it may not possess the same level of iconic status as Lolita or the out-and-out brilliance of Pale Fire, this particular book has a unique charm. It manages to both draw you in with its engaging narrative and yet keep you at a certain distance. It allows you to enter its world, but not necessarily into the mind of the main character - at least, not to the same extent as in his later works.

Significantly, this is one of the few novels by Nabokov (I wonder if there are any others?) that is not narrated in the first person. If you are someone who is captivated by prolonged, thoughtful imagery and the occasional use of more elaborate vocabulary, then this book is sure to offer you one of the most fascinating endings in 20th-century literature. It will leave you pondering and reflecting long after you have turned the final page.

Doceniam, ale nie była to książka dla mnie.

I appreciate the effort that went into creating this book, but unfortunately, it just didn't resonate with me.

Maybe it was the writing style, or perhaps the subject matter didn't interest me as much as I thought it would.

Despite this, I can see that there are many people who would enjoy this book and find value in its pages.

It's important to remember that everyone has different tastes and preferences when it comes to reading.

Just because this book wasn't for me doesn't mean it's not a good book.

I'm sure there are many other great books out there waiting for me to discover, and I look forward to finding them.

In the end, I'm glad I gave this book a try, as it has taught me a little more about what I like and don't like in a book.

**Update on 12.01.21**

**Reworking of the Tale of Adam**

Yes!! Cincinnatus had consumed that forbidden fruit of knowledge, the knowledge which would have severe consequences for him. God decreed that he must spend the rest of his existence in a place called earth. Earth is a strange land peopled by human beings. Here, good and bad seem inversed. Everything moves through the oil of money. Senseless, meaningless, and mindless chatters are considered acts of intellection. People lock and protect their belongings in a maze-like box. To access it, one needs to pass a host of multi-layered steps of curlicues, winding and winding until they realize they haven't moved at all.

Cincinnatus walked on this land. Humans couldn't see him as he was still figureless in this world. But as he moved past them, they sensed a strange whiff around them. It took a month for Cincinnatus to appear in a human form. While resting under the shade of a tree, vexed by the turn of events, he closed his eyes, constraining his eyelids and thinking of various disjointed things of his past life in paradise. He thought he had been thinking for a long time, believing it should have been night by then. But when he opened his eyes, he noted that the sun was still shining, and only a minute could have gone past. He was thinking about when he would be relieved of this wretched existence, when the end would come to this unclear state. Just as his thoughts were sliding back to his past life, he heard a noise of someone calling him. He looked in the direction of the sound and noticed an old lady approaching. She came near him and stroked his hair, calling him my little Cin. He wanted to move away from her but didn't want to hurt the poor old lady's sentiment. At that moment, another lady came in his direction, calling his name Cin Cin. The lady was in her 20s. She came near him and started sobbing. He didn't understand what was happening around him and what it all meant, but he was patient enough to see what would develop. She started in a high-pitch creak, "What have you done Cin. You have made our life miserable too. What blasphemy you have done." Cincinnatus was stunned. But he still managed to ask, "What did I do in particular?" The lady shook her head vigorously and said, "See how arrogant he has turned, still not repenting for his crime! Are you going to repent or not?" She looked at him sternly. Cincinnatus replied, "I am already...." Before he could finish what he wanted to say, she changed the direction of her gaze, started sighing, and smiling. Tears came out of her eyes, and she raised her arms in a position of holding something and said, "That's my Cin, my dear Cin has been forgiven" and started walking in an awkward and bent manner. Cincinnatus couldn't comprehend anything at first but then understood and smiled, realizing it was a play and he was an actor right now. The people were a mirage, a slice of human nature padded with constant and uni-fluid against nature. The old lady was still standing near him, stroking his hair. He told the lady, "I am grateful for your service, my mother. Now it's time for me to live away from you." The old lady, hearing this, stopped stroking his hair, stopped smiling that affectionate motherly smile, and looked in some other direction and started moving as if nothing had happened.

By now, Cincinnatus had completely understood how this world worked. Now his only mission was to spread his knowledge. He traveled to various parts of the earth, and inquisitive beings followed him. He had an amazing singing ability. Most of the food he consumed was either from people who liked his singing or from whatever he could take from the forests. Now he had developed a reputation around the world, earning the name - the monk who sings in a foreign tongue. Here, foreign meant both the form and the content. And by now, he had many followers (if that's what they could be called). They could be seen under a tree shade, discussing and debating about the existence of this life. His followers had a different relationship with their master (if one could call him that). Most of them had disagreements and voiced them out with him, but they understood that the basic premise among them all was the same - that life on this world was meaningless. It also bordered on pessimism and scepticism, but they also tried to prove rationally the existence of a life after death, albeit unsuccessfully.

On one such day, while he was conducting his talks and debates, a group of people clad in tunics, clasping their hands, arrived. By disbanding, they formed a quintet and ordered that on the grounds of blasphemy, crossing the threshold of the law, and propounding a perverse sect, he was accused of “Gnostical turpitude.” And being the first instance of this monstrosity of a crime, the judges had decided, with the agreement of the whole human race, that Cincinnatus would be beheaded under the guillotine. "Good heavens!" exclaimed Cincinnatus. "Gnostical Turpitude! What could that even be?" Whatever it was, he got the essence of the word, as they say meaning acts independently from the linguistic boundaries it is set within. "Not that I am afraid of the end," says Cincinnatus, "but who are these people to….. But I am not invincible or powerful against this barbaric law." And he continued, rising his voice suddenly, "If truth is untruth, if bad is good, and if vile is the style of the day. Let this earthlings accuse me of whatever!" A tall person came forward from one of the quintet, while the others moved backwards in sync. That person said to Cin that he could philosophize for good for a week's time, and now he should follow them. The followers (as it is said for the sake of convention) of Cincinnatus separated themselves in various directions of the earth.

He was put inside a cell made only for him, which was so compact in the shape of Cincinnatus himself. The shape was of a reclined one. He slept the whole 6 days. Meanwhile, outside, the seasons were rapidly changing. One day there were torrential rains. Another day the sun scorched. On another day, the cool breeze brushed the earth with its wings. Another day it became snowy, and the thaw started melting, feeling the caressing of the sun. The cycle of rapid change in seasons thus ended. On the seventh day, the same group who once ordered him to be arrested came to his cell and knocked on the stomach of Cincinnatus’ cell. He rolled out, sensing a punch in his stomach. He was taken to a platform where he was to be executed shortly. He ascended the steps….. The guillotine was awaiting its victim with a bloodthirst. He took all this dignifiedly, without any drop of emotion on him, and smiled at the crowd which was shouting, booing, laughing. It was a frenzied crowd. He kept his head on the headlock. The person who assisted him all the while asked what his last wish was. Cincinnatus started singing with his head inside the headlock, "You all be aware of the li...." Before he could finish his singing, his head had been cut away. He came out, started descending the steps of the platform, and got down to the ground. He looked towards the sky and started ascending steps made of wavery blue. His followers were assembled, and they alone could witness their master ascending towards the ether. All of his followers had tears and said, "Long live the monk who sings in a foreign tongue!"

You might think you have been reading the review written by Aravindakshan for the book "Invitation to a beheading" written by Nabokov. But you are mistaken peeps! The fact is, he has inserted in many places his own story, which is called “Blasphemy”, without any friction to the narration of the review and has tricked you into believing it's a review of "Invitation to beheading", when in fact he is trying to gauge the audience's reaction to his own story. Please read the book yourself. And not read reviews of this "particular" style.

**Alternate review**

Within the end of the 2nd page, the author announces to us that the story is nearing its end! In fact, there lies an important point about this work. I will just share that from the book: "In accordance with the law, the death sentence was announced to Cincinnatus C. in a whisper. All rose, exchanging smiles. The hoary judge put his mouth close to his ear, panted for a moment, made the announcement and slowly moved away, as though ungluing himself. Thereupon Cincinnatus was taken back to the fortress. The road wound around its rocky base and disappeared under the gate like a snake in a crevice. He was calm; however, he had to be supported during the journey through the long corridors, since he planted his feet unsteadily, like a child who has just learned to walk, or as if he were about to fall through like a man who has dreamt that he is walking on water only to have a sudden doubt: but is this possible? Rodion, the jailer, took a long time to unlock the door of Cincinnatus’ cell—it was the wrong key—and there was the usual fuss. At last the door yielded. Inside, the lawyer was already waiting. He sat on the cot, shoulder-deep in thought, without his dress coat (which had been forgotten on a chair in the courtroom—it was a hot day, a day that was blue all through); he jumped impatiently when the prisoner was brought in. But Cincinnatus was in no mood for talking. Even if the alternative was solitude in this cell, with its peephole like a leak in a boat—he did not care, and asked to be left alone; they all bowed to him and left." So we are nearing the end. The right-hand, still untasted part of the novel, which, during our delectable reading, we would lightly feel, mechanically testing whether there were still plenty left (and our fingers were always gladdened by the placid, faithful thickness) has suddenly, for no reason at all, become quite meager: a few minutes of quick reading, already downhill, and—O horrible! The heap of cherries, whose mass had seemed to us of such a ruddy and glossy black, had suddenly become discrete drupes: the one over there with the scar is a little rotten, and this one has shriveled and dried up around its stone (and the very last one is inevitably hard and unripe). So goes the story for another 200 odd pages..

**Alternate review to the alternate review**

Tags: Nihilistic, kafkaesque, religion, philosophy, crisis, totalitarian.

Though I don't have anything to add to this meta-review, I would like to share my earliest brush with this genius writer:

**Reading Nabokov in Public**

If I am in any way striking the imagination of the readers of this post to the revolutionary act of those brave ladies of Iran (yes, Lolita in Tehran), and expect this is about it, then I am afraid this piece is going to be a serious let down and a bad job at reminding of that great defying act in history. Rather, I am talking about a commonplace activity in my city, one that you may have come across - in the past - occasionally, if not quite often in public places --- people reading books in a bookstore, metro, bus, and train. Is it commonplace anymore? Taking out the library out of this equation, the last time I remember reading a book in a public place was exactly a decade ago, at Landmark. I was just a new-born-baby to Literature then (I still am). I was roaming around the plaza, unsure of what to read, but finally settled to take out Nabokov. It was a very bad choice for a new born baby! I was with my sister, and I remember well, I received a call from my friend to check whether I was doing my duty as a reader. I was - informed my sister to him through the phone. Meanwhile, I was busy deciphering the words Nabokov presented before me, and I was wondering about the language the author was speaking to me. Is it really English? Would I really understand any of the classics in my life if this is the language I should learn? Am I hitting myself against a dark wall in a dark room inside a big moving tunnel? If I did finally succeed in deciphering it, is it only to start again afresh when I open another book and find myself in a new dark wall in a dark room? Is there any worth in this pursuit of immense frustration? These were the thoughts that rushed through my mind then. I didn't buy the book or any book that day. I came home as I had gone. Many years later, I did read Nabokov, though I am still a bit reluctant in openly saying it, since I haven't read anything apart from "Invitation to a Beheading". No Lolita, no Pnin, no Pale Fire! (How much pleasure of language I am missing still!) I am wrong factually, as I have read a fair bit of that mysterious book - which was encrypted in its literary language then, which still alienates me by its obscurity. Who knows, some day when I get into the Nabokovian phase, it may come back to me, and then I would be able to decipher the language it is set in, and it would remind me of that place which is no more there, and of a past book culture, that occasionally opened itself to the public eye, which, as you know well, will never return again!

In accordance with the law, the death sentence was whispered to Cincinnat C.

The absurdity of the events that Cincinnat experiences after being imprisoned brings to mind the writings of Kafka.

I reproduce a fragment from the preface by Ion Ianoşi (1996):

"He pretends, completely illogically, to find out the reason for his condemnation and especially the date of his execution. He waits, impatiently, to be treated like a human being by the judges, jailers and executioners. According to their natural logic, however, they constantly mock him, stage new and new farces of liberation for him, because in their eyes the test of freedom deserves to be treated only with buffoonery. The desire to know and to be unambiguous is a double crime of lèse-majesté in a univocal and uniform universe, wearing uniforms on the body and on the soul. The author has always despised the plebs, which is why he confronts his character with an amorphous mass, in which no one is allowed to be a personality and everyone must let themselves be commanded. It is a puppet theater pulled by strings and on a string. It is not populated by people, but by ghosts, specters and vampires, parodies of the real, some pseudo-beings who lead a pseudo-existence."

This description of Cincinnat's situation highlights the Kafkaesque nature of his experience, where the rules and logic of the world seem arbitrary and unjust. The idea of a uniform and univocal universe where individuality is suppressed and freedom is treated as a joke is a recurring theme in Kafka's works. Cincinnat's struggle to understand his condemnation and to be treated with dignity in the face of such absurdity makes him a tragic and sympathetic figure.

One of the strangest books I have read is the beautiful book "Fesfere Sooz".

It doesn't have a simple and touching story at all, and you have to put your heart into it to understand it.

I don't know how much sweat the translator has shed, but in my opinion, it is very incomplete.

I hope to read this book in its original language one day.

This is the last line, and I must seek salvation and stability within the scope of this life.

Overall, this book has left a deep impression on me with its unique style and profound content. Although the translation may have some flaws, it still allows me to catch a glimpse of the charm of the original work. I look forward to the day when I can read it in its original language and have a more in-depth understanding of its essence.

This was read, with good intent, for Book Club.

It is evident that I am lacking in some understanding about life and the allure of writing. In this book, every character, except for Cinncinatus, is depicted as fat, greasy, foolish, and morally corrupt. Beauty seems to reside in a different realm, not in the current one where the fortress and the axe loom.

Oh, and one must utter "gnostic turpitude" at least three times or else it is clear that they are not in the know, which unfortunately, I am not.

I have no clue what I just read. Perhaps the Ladies will enlighten me.

Update: The ladies informed me that the writing was magnificent, and the subject matter was either about being true to oneself as a writer or that the Gulag shows no mercy. However, only one out of seven enjoyed the read. I believe that Nabokov will be read less and less as time progresses.