The Gift

Как правило - я не большой поклонник «творчестве о творчестве», поэтому все литературные труды о сотворении книги или голивудские фильмы о самом себе как правило мне не нравятся.
«Дар», несмотря на то, что в прямолинейном смысле является именно творчеством о творчестве (главный герой - молодой поэт и писатель живущий в эмиграции в Берлине и в книге мы следим за его эволюцией, как автора - от поэта, вдохновленным Пушкиным к прозаику), благодаря своей много(мульти?)гранности держал меня с собой до самых последних строк.
Будучи мета-романом, романом в романе, публицистикой в романе, потоком сознания в романе и «много чего еще другого» в романе, он, наряду с, порой, вычурным богатством языка Набокова, оставляет место для каждого читателя. Лично меня «держали» Прустовского толка воспоминания о детстве и о российской природе, описания граничащие со сном и пробуждающие собственные воспоминания похлеще известной мадленки. Книга полна образов и рефренов к другим произведениям Набокова - шахматы, закольцованность времени и композиции, красота юности и многое другое
Какие-то же части книги я пролистывал, практически, со скукой - при идеальной форме, вопрос содержания для меня порой оставался открытым. Но так как форма - непревзойденная, ты все равно читаешь до конца.

The Gift is a bit different from other Nabokov novels. Its closest contemporary is the earlier Glory, and to a lesser extent his memoir Speak, Memory. Instead of the tricky, complex and maze-like plots that structure most of his works, this one is a slow burn. It takes its time and doesn't necessarily lead anywhere, but instead provides its pleasure in the beautiful density of the prose and the wonderful observations and sly jokes. Granted, those are aspects that make a large part of all of N's novels, but here they are pushed to the fore. It's a very slow read, but not because it lacks interest. The Gift is like fresh cream, it's delicious, but it's so rich that you can only take a little bit at a time. And while it is slow-moving, there's a very subtle and very pleasing payoff at the end. Maybe the Chernyshevski section drags on a little long, but that's really my only complaint here. Also it lacks a little something to push it over the hump from really good to being a masterpiece.

I really can't praise the prose enough. I tend to rib on certain writers who I think lack evocation in their writing (Hi, Hemingway! Hi, McCarthy!), so I want to take a second to point out the work of a master to contrast with that. From page 292 of my edition: "Fyodor sat between the novelists Shahmatov and Vladimirov by a wide window behind which the night gleamed wetly black, with two-toned (the Berlin imagination did not stretch to any more) illuminated signs - ozone-blue and oporto-red - and rumbling electric trains with rapidly and distinctly lighted insides gliding above the square along a viaduct, against whose architvolts below slow, grinding trams seemed to keep butting without finding a loophole." See that? "The night gleamed wetly black"!!! See how simply and perfectly that brings the scene to life?

To digress slightly for a second, I want to point out how lucky we are with Nabokov. There's a long list of great writers who produced very little great material, either due to early death, late start, slow output, quitting, or continuing to write but falling off (or in some cases suddenly jumping from mediocrity to greatness). Nabokov, however, wrote steadily from his 20s until his death at 78. He wrote 17 novels (plus two more published posthumously; once complete and one in very rudimentary stages), a memoir, and six hundred pages of short stories, not to mention essays, poems, plays and lectures. Not one of those novels (except the unfinished one that never should have been published) was less than good, most of them are very good to great, and at least three of them are masterpieces. Being a Nabokov fan is like being treated to a seemingly never-ending treasure trove, and there are not many writers you can say that about.

The other wonderful thing about dear old N is that reading his work isn't the only joy he provides. While he would no doubt object to the idea that any of his works have a message, if you did decide to derive one, it's that art is all around you. The most consistent theme in his work is the observation of the little details in all aspects of life, and that those details are what bring true joy. He teaches you to become a connoisseur of your own world, to separate the common and mundane (another major theme of his is an utter distaste for the common) from the truly exceptional and artistic in all areas your surroundings. It's not something that jumps out immediately upon reading his work, but the more you immerse yourself in it, the more you will find yourself making the very types of observations that he would.

P.S. If you have his collected short stories, "The Circle" is a sort of companion piece to The Gift and is worth reading afterwards.

Though less than 400 pages this seemed like a long book, or several books. Possibly because it moves from a book about a book of poems, to a memoir of Fyodor's father, to a biography-of-sorts of Chernyshevskii, with literary criticism and imagined conversations and many lines of poetry throughout. I couldn't quite find the thread, the plait, the tide, though many wavelets were mordant, bilingually punning, or finely wrought.

VN even puts a foretaste of Lolita in the mouth of one of his most poshlii (vulgar) characters, Shchyogolev: "'Imagine this kind of thing: an old dog--but still in his prime, fiery, thirsting for happinesss--gets to know a widow, and she has a daughter, still quite a little girl--you know what I mean--when nothing is formed yet but already she has a way of walking that drives you out of your mind--A slip of a girl, very fair, pale, with blue under the eyes--and of course she doesn't even look at the old goat. What to do?....Eh? D'you feel here a kind of Dostoevskian tragedy?'" (186)

Shchyogolev, of course, having married one Marianna Nikolaevna, a widow with a pale young daughter.
What to do, of course, being the then-common title of Chernyshevskii's big novel, What Is To Be Done.
Dostoevskii, of course, being Dostoevskii.

Avrei dovuto dare quattro stelle perché ho trovato leggermente ostico il quarto capitolo; tuttavia, la splendida scrittura di Nabokov ha avuto la meglio.

Lê-se pelo puro deleite da beleza de certas frases. Apesar de nao ter gostado dos cap. 2 e 4, por razoes diferentes - um maçador outro por ser uma critica desalmada - os restantes compensam, em suma  este livro é maioritáriamente maravilhoso!

(It is read for the pure delight of the beauty of certain passages. Although I did not like chapters 2 and 4, for different reasons—one being tedious and the other for its ruthless criticism—the rest make up for it. In short, this book is mostly wonderful!)

• науковий прорахунок художнього тексту, що от-от, і ти вже читаєш нон-фікшн

• роман про творчість, філологічна розвідка натхнення

• автор каже, що натхнення – це розмова з тисячею співрозмовників, де тільки один – справжній

• у цей текст треба провалюватися глибоко, але порційно

Este livro foi a minha primeira incursão na bibliografia de Nabokov, e não posso dizer que tenha sido uma experiência memorável. Não estou, no entanto, a dizer que o livro é mau; muito pelo contrário, acredito que seja um livro ótimo - mas quem, como eu, não está familiarizado com a cultura russa e, especificamente, com a sua literatura (que no meu caso desconheço completamente com a exceção de um par de livros de Fyodor Dostoyevsky e outro de Leo Tolstoy) fica necessariamente completamente perdido. Desde as infindáveis discussões sobre as valências literárias Mikhail Lermontov, Nikolai Gogol e Alexander Pushkin, à minibiografia (altamente crítica) do escritor e pensador Nicolaï Tchernychevski, este livro é uma declaração de amor à sua pátria e às suas letras maternas. Declaração de amor cujas nuances se perderam completamente, inegavelmente pela minha falta de conhecimento no campo. Aparentemente cada um dos cinco capítulos foi escritos no estilo de um notório autor russo - Pushkin, Gogol, entre outros - facto do qual permaneci completamente ignorante até ter acabado a leitura e começar a ver algumas avaliações no Goodreads.

A história resume-se rapidamente: centra-se no personagem principal, Fyodor Godunov-Cherdyntsev, um escritor em início de carreira no seu caminho para o reconhecimento literário. Uma trama lateral descreve também o seu romance com Zina, filha dos seus senhorios e incansável apoiante dos seus projetos.

Fiquei sem dúvida com vontade de explorar mais Nabokov (da próxima vez talvez um romance que não requeira conhecimentos profundos da literatura russa). Apesar de estar perdido durante quase toda a duração do livro, é um livro que tem os seus momentos. O estilo de escrita é bastante complicado mas altamente cativante, e apanha-se-lhe o jeito passado algum tempo de ambientação . Talvez me dedique ao Lolita, da próxima vez.

This book is undoubtedly a literary masterpiece, chronicling the writer’s journey to discover their place and style in literature. It is a challenging read, whose beauty can only be fully appreciated if you can tolerate Nabokov’s intellectual arrogance and his penchant for page-long sentences.