"Matter of CHance" Oh my. OOOOOOOOHHHHHH MY.

"Sounds" is the sparkliest, twinkliest thing I have read and made me burst out crying in the shower about 6 hours after I read it cuz it was so pretty and sweet and moving. And for once in my life I don't mean bowel-moving.

Contrary to popular opinion, I feel that Nabokov's work suffers because it does not have a sharp focus on the momentous discourse that shaped the Russian revolution; his writing shows a curiously frozen bourgeois society, populated with images of university students and butterfly collectors. Two stars.

La verdad este libro es más para "fanáticos" de Nabokov que quieran explorar la totalidad de sus relatos cortos. La calidad de las historias es bastante irregular.

Stau aici cât să îngroș întunericul, cât sa îmi apară pete deasupra altora pete ca într-un tablou prost construit unde contururile depășesc marginile...
Stau aici pe marginea nopții ca să îmi citesc amintirile. Tot trecutul meu sparge venele și inundă chiuveta cu sânge proaspăt, poate dacă aș fi trăit cu câțiva ani mai puțin, înaintea la tot ce mă urmărește astăzi.
Nu sunt o fire demonica, dar ma obsedează orice clar de lună, văd strălucirea ei nordică și mă încarc de energii albe, reci, hibernale...
Nabokov nu a reușit cu " Povestiri", scrise la 26 de ani, aproape că îl trage de mânecă pe Dostoievski cu cel mai prost început al său de scriitor și anume "Oameni sarmani".
Povestirile nu au final, se întrerup prea repede, lipsește conexiunea dintre scriitor și cititor.
Un elogiu al mamei Rusia înainte de exil, aproape că îl întrevăd pe tânărul Dostoievski chinuindu-se cu prima sa nuvelă așa cum îl descrie Henry Troyat în "Dostoievski".
Nabokov e pradă atmosferei fantomatice a nopții când creatorul ar trebui sa nu dorma, ci sa se sufoce cu lanțurile creației.
Pe Nabokov nu-l caracterizează simplele povestiri, deși la Cehov ieșeau de minune aceste exerciții de scris fragmentar.
Cu degete reci, selenare, sting această lumânare fumeganda, ca un sărman Dionis a lui Eminescu...
Nu, nu e în stilul lui Nabokov acest acces schopenhauerian, de părăsire totală a voinței, el, care visează doar nimfete, care le descrie atât de savuros, dând muzicalitate chiar și unei pietre fade de pe drum.
Aici nu e Nabokov, fie Povestiri e doar un capriciu al condeiului său, sau doar un jurnal ieftin al tinereții sale plăpânde în marea Rusiei.

I recently learned that Nabokov's family spoke English, French & Russian at home and that he learned the 3 languages simultaneously. Knowing that English was not a second language learned later in life eases my mind a bit, otherwise his gift of poetic prose would be too absurd... This is one of my favorite short story collections by a single writer and I'm a short story junky.

Le golpearon durante un buen rato, y con mucha originalidad. Se les ocurrió, entre otras cosas, utilizar un sacacorchos en la palma de su mano; luego en los pies. El empleado de correos, que había estado en Rusia, hizo un látigo con un palo y un cinturón y empezó a usarlo con endemoniada destreza. Los otros hombres se apoyaban más bien en los tacones de acero de sus botas, mientras que las mujeres se contentaban con pincharle y darle bofetadas. Todos lo pasaron maravillosamente.
Cuando volvió a Berlín, me llamó, estaba muy cambiado, se sentó en silencio, con las manos sobre las rodillas, y me contó su historia; no dejaba de repetir que tenía que dejar su trabajo, me suplicaba que lo dejara marchar, insistía en que no podía continuar, que no tenía ya fuerzas para pertenecer de nuevo a la humanidad. Evidentemente, lo dejé ir.

“The lovely thing about humanity is that at times one may be unaware of doing right, but one is always aware of doing wrong” is one of the truisms that permeate from this selection of 68 stories by Vladimir Nabokov; that particular line came from The Assistant Producer, a story which, had it been made into a movie, would have been perfect casting for Marlene Dietrich.

This was a hefty book, a heavy read, mostly from the points of view of Russian emigres in post WWI Paris and Berlin. Out of the 68 stories, I was smitten with 50 (noted with check marks) and out of those 50, was enamored with 33 (starred). Almost all have unhappy endings, and the ones with what I'd consider semi-happy endings I simply based on the conclusions' redemptive value. Among the Russian writers I'm familiar with (Boris Pasternak does not count, having only read Dr Zhivago), Nabokov's tales are the least heavy on the heart and easier on the soul. Tolstoy's are a shade or two heavier, followed by those of Chekhov's. Then for the ultimate in gut-heavy gloom and doom, count on Dostoyevsky to deliver. His stories make the rest sound like The Tales from the Hundred Acre Wood. Not that Nabokov's stories lack for morose men in bereft circumstances of course--these generalizations are merely for my own indulgence. Nabokov's the guy who wrote Christmas, after all. A story never to be read over the holidays. - November 2016

* Having since read some stories by two other Russian stalwarts, Gogol and Pushkin, my sentiments have changed. Their stories are least heavy on the soul, and gasp—even comedic! - December 2024

“

I've been reading this for a couple weeks ago, and just carrying it around and trying to literally breathe the words into my soul. Nabokov is a favorite author, but he's also my favorite writer. His language is incredible, just gorgeous, unparalleled by anything else I've read. A couple of the stories were a bit too heavy on the twist at the end, but I never blamed Nabokov because the language was so beautiful that no story seemed like a waste. Sometimes I find that I don't care what Nabokov is writing about, his words are so pretty. I described it to my boyfriend as: Dostoyevsky [who I also read this fall] is like a straight vodka, Tolstoy is like a good craft ale [probably made out in the country somewhere], and Nabokov is like a rich, warm wine that makes you feel all fuzzy in the cold night as you try and figure out the intricacies of his works.

I've read Lolita and Speak, Memory, but this gave me more of an appreciation of Nabokov's range. There are stories in here that have aspects of magical realism, while some seem more straight out fantasy or science fiction. The notes in the back and the introduction from both Vladimir and Dmitri Nabokov shed light on when the stories were published and occasionally some of their inspiration. The collection includes some recently translated stories such as 'Easter Rain' or 'Natasha.' Two stories, the notes explain, were originally meant to be the start to a novel, and connecting them as chapter 1 and chapter 2 in retrospect makes very little sense-- 'Ultima Thule' and 'Solus Rex.' Another is adapted into Speak, Memory; another is connected to another of his novels which I haven't read. Many deal with the emigre experience and/or the spirit of Russia. Others simply with whatever Nabokov fancies. Another is a joke played on a friend-- read the note on "Vasiliy Shishkov' for a new view on the story that makes it ten times better than the first read.

I think, in the end, my absolute favorites in recalling were 'A Bad Day', 'Terror', 'The Circle', 'Cloud, Castle, Lake', and 'Natasha'. Other notables include 'Gods', 'Bachman', 'The Aurelian', 'Perfection', 'Breaking the News', 'A Slice of Life', 'Solus Rex', 'Time and Ebb', and 'Easter Rain'. All out of about 68 beautiful stories total.

“The lovely thing about humanity is that at times one may be unaware of doing right, but one is always aware of doing wrong.”

― Vladimir Nabokov, The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov



In someways reading Nabokov's stories is like swimming in a turbulent river of all his great themes (doppelgängers, the creative process, loss, nostalgia for Russia, the individual, obsession, dreams/reality, etc*).

While there were some stories that were masterpieces, the strength of this book really is the ability it gives the Nabokov enthusiast to see the development of a brilliant writer from the early 20s (egg) to the late 50s (imago).

One only needs to read 'Terra Incognita' to see the seeds of his novel 'Ada: or Ardor' or read 'Tyrants Destroyed' to see the seeds of 'Invitation to Beheading'. This collection is a must for those who adore Nabokov, but also an interesting introduction to Nabokov for those whose only exposure may be "Lolita'.

* I am certain I am leaving out a major theme. Each time I change,, update the review it peeks out at me but disappears as soon as my eyes focus and my fingers start to type.

An exquisite collection of short stories. It took me just over five years to read all of the stories in this book, occasionally starting or ending my day with one or two, while in the midst of reading other, book-length material.

Nabokov can be somewhat wordy. But while such wordiness often clutters the work of other writers, Nabokov's style creates a sort of gestalt--the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. He crams so much into his sentences and paragraphs. How he managed, over the many years of his writing, to consistently make such masterful use of language is astounding to me.

Sometimes, after finishing a single paragraph of Nabokov (I can still recall one such paragraph about two thirds of the way through "Lolita"), I will pause and think to myself, "That was a masterpiece." Many of the stories in this volume contain, and in and of themselves constitute, such masterpieces.

I was running again along the path, next to the alder
bushes. I felt that I had bathed in another's grief, that I was
radiant with his tears. The feeling was a happy one, which I
have since experienced only rarely: at the sight of a bowed
tree, a pierced glove, a horse's eye. It was happy because it
had a harmonious flow. It was happy as any movement or radiance is happy. I had once been splintered into a million beings and objects. Today I am one; tomorrow I shall splinter again. And
thus everything in the world decants and modulates. That day I
was on the crest of a wave. I knew that all my surroundings
were notes of one and the same harmony, knew--secretly--the
source and the inevitable resolution of the sounds assembled
for an instant, and the new chord that would be engendered by
each of the dispersing notes. My soul's musical ear knew and
comprehended everything.

Sounds

A behemoth of a book, best savoured, probably. The prose is dense, but never purple. I appreciate the chronological ordering of the stories, if you do read this, don't neglect the notes section at the end of the book.

My favourite was Spring in Fialta, this one rewards attention to ostensibly meandering descriptions, at no point in this book does Nabokov waste a line.

Other favourites: Sounds, Benefience, La Veneziana, A Letter That Never Reached Russia, A Guide To Berlin, 'Cloud, Castle, Lake', Lik, Ultima Thule