“I want to keep everything as it were on the very brink of parody. You know those idiotic “biographies les romancees” where Byron is cooly slipped a dream extracted from one of his own poems? And there must be on the other hand an abyss of seriousness, and I must make my way along the narrow ridge between my own truth and a caricature of it. And most essentially there must be a single uninterrupted progression of thought. I must peel my apple in a single strip, without removing the knife”. So tells Fyodor Godunov-Cherdyntsev, the protagonist of the “Gift” to his lover about his forthcoming novella. In my view, this is a pretty accurate summary what is “The Gift” as whole actually. But he definitely saved my time and effort in coming up with something half as elegant as this phrase.

Probably, it is not surprising in this case to find such an accurate description of the novel within the novel. Nabokov always plays games with his readers. “The Gift” is metafictional in its core. It contains numerous long and short, intertwined and stand alone narratives and poems. The young Fyodor, an emigre and former Russian aristocrat finds himself in Weimar Berlin where he tries to polish his gift as an inspiring writer. The book consists of five parts, and three of those parts are finished and not quite pieces of work by Fyodor. It starts with his poems, follows with his unfinished investigation into the work and fate of his father, the natural scientist and the traveller (of course, plenty of butterflies are in there). It culminates in an study or a short biography of Chernyshevsky, the Russian writer and revolutionary thinker of a sort who was the one of the founders of Social Democratic movement. The rest of the book is Fyodor’s life, thoughts about literature and surroundings, and the mystery of the process of creation.

The concepts of a biography and a parody stitches this novel into the whole as a strong thread. Fyodor refers to a parody for the Chernyshevsky’s piece only. But I could not help but think that it applies to the novel as whole. Specifically, in two earlier pieces by Fyodor, Nabokov parodies an attempt by the young author to develop his craft and his skills of self-criticism. The verses of the first part I found particularly underwhelming. It was jolly good when Nabokov used his well known skill of painting with memory in the bits of prose, but those memories, even beautifully written, did not raise any response in me either. They were dear to Fyodor, but too banal and without appeal to me. The really successful witty bits were those when Fyodor was thinking about potential reviews of his work and was in imaginary conversations with his opponents.The second part about his father was plain boring. That is if you are not into butterflies like me. Again, I hope it was partly the author’s intention to show that effort was going nowhere with Fyodor. But it was a hard work to read.

Now, fortunately, we are coming to the stuff I liked. In the foreword, Nabokov is saying that the main “heroine is not Zina (Fyodor’s girlfriend), but Russian literature.”. And it is truly the case. Through Fyodor’s thoughts, Nabokov takes the readers into the excursion through the contemporary Russian literature and criticism starting from Pushkin and ending with Bely and the others. As always with Nabokov, he does not hold punches for those who he does not like (which is the majority). But the comments are always witty and incorporated well into the text. To give just one example, Dostoyevsky “reminds a room with an electrical light switched on during the daytime.”

Apart from the main 3 texts produced by Fyodor, there are many more incorporated into the texture of the novel: the extracts from newspapers, real and not, the book reviews, numerous poems and studies. Nabokov, as Joyce never uses the quotation marks. So it is impossible to trace directly what comes from other sources and what he devices specifically for this book. But it is a part of the game. Unless they are metafictional reviews, many of these texts are biographical - memories of Fyodor’s childhood, the story of Fyodor alter ego, Yasha, the travels of his father. Apparently, it was an era of biographical novels in a style Zweig and others in Europe and Tynyanov in Russia. In these novels, the author put himself into the shoes of the main character and associated strongly with him. These authors took a licence to imagine their characters and create their fictional portraits adding imaginary details to their lives. Fyodor (and presumably Nabokov) hated this. On the other hand, Fyodor was fascinated what happened to the Russian literature in the 60s of 19th century when it went downhill. Therefore Fyodor decided to create a biography of Chernyshevsky solely by compilation of existing sources. The idea was not to add fictional or psychological insights, but only comment on the existing diaries by Chernyshevsky and the documents created by his contemporaries. As a result, Fyodor came up with a spiteful, comic and slightly absurd compilation which portrays Chernyshevsky as an accident prone, not very profound, but courageous person who was just a toy in the hands of his fate. This portrait was very different from the generally accepted one. Respectively, in real life Nabokov’s publishers refused to accept this part. Though Fyodor, his character, was more successful. Again in this part especially, Nabokov does not attribute any writing, but almost all the text has been traced by Nabokov’s followers back to the sources. Amazing how a skilful writer with an agenda can create a narrative out of facts of someone else life and how vulnerable practically anyone could be in his skilful hands. However, Fyodor does not manage to answer his main question: he does not manage to explain how such an “mediocre” personality has influenced the revolutionary movement in Russia to such an extent.

In spite of sometimes being infuriated with Nabokov’s snobbery (characteristically related to the “natives”- Germans and his literary enemies), in spite of being bored by the verses of the first part, I enjoyed this novel as a whole. There were two main sources of joy for me. The first one is seeing the world through Fyodor’s eyes, to be a witness of his fight to create and grasping with his gift. Nabokov is very good in “seeing” the multitude of our reality and he knows this. For example, in one scene, Fyodor thinks what he would want to teach the others. And his example is simultaneous appreciation of someone’s character, the detail of a scene and a reminisce of his own past. I think, later it was called “cosmic synchronisation in prose”.

Another joy was a sheer intellectual one - to understand the structure of this beast and to hunt for many little clues and references to other authors he left in the text. For example, in the foreword to English edition he says: “I wonder how far the imagination of the reader would follow the young lovers after they’ve been dismissed.” Well, the matter is that “the young lovers” are going home to be alone for the first time while they do not have a single keys from the place. There were 3 sets of keys and all of them are inside of the house.  So yes, one has to come up with the imaginative solution for this one. And the harder one which I am still not sure about. A gifted poet, another character of the novel says: “ real writer should ignore all readers but one, that of the future reader, who in his turn is merely the author reflected in time.” In fact, in Russian it is even more strong. Literally it is “real writer would spite on the readers” which would be more correctly translated “real writer does not give a damn about the readers.” But this is not my puzzle. I know this about Nabokov. The puzzle is what does he mean by “the future reader is the author reflected in time”? I have a few ideas but I keep puzzling.

And the structure is the total aesthetic pleasure by itself. He hints again talking about Chernyshevsky bit that he wants “composing his biography in a shape of a ring, closed with the clasp of apocryphal sonnet (so the result would be not the form of a book, which is in its finiteness is opposed to the circular nature of everything’s existence, but a continuously curving, and this infinite, sentence).” And of course he does it with “The Gift”. In the early part Fyodor sees the picture of a naked woman holding her own portrait. In the last part, Fyodor is talking about a new novel he wants to write about his life which is obviously a reference to the one I’ve just finished.

Это последний роман Набокова написанный по-русски. И здесь были вещи, которые мне понравились. Но все равно я предпочитаю его романы по-английски. Особенно “Бледный огонь”. Там - тот же набор идей, но все сделано гораздо более изящно. Здесь очень много самолюбования и прямо таки открытого снобизма, что надоедает. Есть конечно гениальные места. Но есть и чересчур. Например стихи в первой части банальны до нельзя. Или сколько прилагательных например мы имеем в этой фразе «И, идя через могильно-роскошный сад, мимо жирных клумб, где в блаженном успении цвели басисто-багряные георгины». Я лично продиралась через "басистые георгины". Но в целом, интересно было прочитать и окунуться в полемику того периода, посмотреть, кто на него повлиял, и как он влияет на следующие поколения писателей.

Copincollo un luuungo commento che avevo scritto tempo addietro per un siti di libri e letteratura...

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“Il vero scrittore dovrebbe infischiarsene di tutti i lettori, salvo uno: il lettore futuro”: questo viene detto ne Il dono di Nabokov, a pagina 421, quando soltanto un’altra cinquantina ci separano dalla conclusione. Una frase che è quasi un piccolo premio proprio per il lettore futuro, cioè, contemporaneo (Il dono è stato scritto negli anni ’30 e in seguito pubblicato integralmente), il lettore che sia riuscito nell’impresa di superare la fittissima giungla delle pagine precedenti. È una frase che, peraltro, fa parte di un dialogo fittizio, immaginato dal protagonista, e quindi c’è quasi il sospetto che Nabokov, maestro d’ironia, si stia prendendo gioco della sua stessa opera con una dichiarazione d’intenti fasulla. Più che sospetto è speranza: perché Il dono sembra rappresentare ad ogni sua riga, ad ogni suo capoverso, tutto ciò che un romanzo destinato a un lettore futuro non dovrebbe essere.
Scritto, come già si è accennato, negli anni ’30 (tra il 1935 e il 1937 per esser precisi) e quindi pubblicato a puntate tra il 1937 e il 1938 su rivista. Il suo pubblico immediato (non quello futuro) è il mondo dell’emigrazione russa, un mondo che, dopo la Rivoluzione d’Ottobre (1917), si trovava sparso su entrambe le sponde dell’Atlantico, tra Germania, Francia e Stati Uniti; mondo di cui anche Nabokov era parte. E pur non essendone l’argomento centrale, è sicuramente il grande paesaggio del libro, le cui vicende si svolgono nella Berlino della prima metà degli anni ’20, tra traslochi lungo appartamenti più o meno fatiscenti, serate letterarie di prosa e poesia, lunghe passeggiate nei parchi estivi. Lo spazio narrativo è compresso nell’arco di pochi mesi, ma le divagazioni, libere quanto frequenti, lo espandono viaggiando avanti e indietro lungo i decenni della vita del protagonista, della sua infanzia, e ancora più indietro lungo la vita di suo padre, esploratore entomologico e naturalista che aveva percorso i sentieri di quasi tutta l’Asia, perdendocisi infine senza far ritorno. Rischio condiviso dal lettore de Il dono, perplesso da un andirivieni temporale tortuoso e capriccioso, dal continuo e incontrollato alternarsi, per il protagonista, della narrazionae in terza e prima persona; dall’ostacolo, consueto nella letteratura russa, dell’abbondanza di nomi, cognomi, patronomici, vezzeggiativi e (per le signore) cognomi acquisiti dallo sposo, che riescono a popolare gli ambienti di dieci e più personaggi dove in realtà ce ne sono tre o quattro. Nabokov desidera volare alto, e lo scrittore della sua razza certamente può permetterselo (perché ci riesce), ma qualche piccola pietosa didascalia in più per il lettore meno avveduto (per il lettore futuro?) non avrebbe guastato. Anche perché l’ostacolo maggiore alla lettura del Il dono, lo vedremo subito, è ben altro.
Spazio narrativo compresso nell’arco di pochi mesi, lungo i quali Il dono non mette in scena grandi azioni o incredibili sconvolgimenti. Quasi tutto il gioco si svolge nella mente di Fëdor Kostantinovič Gudonov-Čerdyncev, un’introversione estetizzante che ha i suoi due apici nei dialoghi immaginarî del protagonista con il suo rivale letterario Končeev. Protagonista è un termine non del tutto corretto, e bastano poche decine di pagine per concordare in pieno, volenti o nolenti, con quel che Nabokov afferma nella “premessa all’edizione inglese”, riprodotta anche in quella italiana: la grande protagonista de Il dono è la letteratura russa! Rispetto alla quale le involute divagazioni di Fëdor, l’esposizione delle sue piccole manie, la sua storia sentimentale con Zina, la distesa, mai logora tensione nostalgica verso la monumentale figura paterna, tutto è funzionale a lunghe cavalcate in pianure le cui capitali sono Puškin, Gogol’, Čechov, dove l’autore non teme la sosta presso i nomi più oscuri, quasi totalmente ignoti a chi sia meno che specialista. Ma certamente sapeva sarebbe stata immediata la comprensione e complicità di un pubblico, i letterati della diaspora russa; pubblico dal quale è invece lontano, troppo lontano, il semplice lettore generico d’inizio XXI secolo, per quanto interessato alle letterature d’ogni tempo, per quanto resistente alle sfide e al fascino dell’ignoto intellettuale. La resistenza rischia di essere sfiancata a più riprese da un procedere dispersivo e raramente strutturato, attraverso nomi e patronimici di personaggi a volte appena accennati che tornano un cento pagine dopo pretendendo una riconoscibilità immediata; attraverso gallerie di poeti simbolisti d’inizio ‘900 ormai dimenticati dalle nostre antologie, di critici letterarî dell’800 il cui cognome è, senza preavviso, identico a quello di altri personaggi… Gineprajo ostico che, e forse ciò è ancor più frustrante, al suo interno, nei suoi anfratti più buj e ardui a raggiungersi, nasconde le consuete perle della scrittura di Nabokov, splendide e generosa, quella capacità di creare immagini d’una invenzione sempre sorprendente, di costruire catene di metafore intrecciate, di ricreazioni verbali, di tracciare insospettabili connessioni tra gli elementi della vita, della natura, del mondo percepito e del mondo pensato; connessioni e metafore che si nutrono nello stesso istante da una parte di uno snobismo affettato e dichiaratamente ostentanto, intriso di alta cultura, di riferimenti dotti, di particolari ricercati, dall’altra di un’ironia sempre viva e pungente, capace di rovesciare la quotidianità più triviale, di dar luce e realtà, di dare splendore a volte sfolgorante, agli aspetti più marginali, più sordidi, meno letterarî del mondo, gli odori dei corpi e degli ambienti, le anatomie scomposte e antiestetiche delle comparse di sfondo, i tic e le idiozie pedestri dei personaggi principali. Rara alchimia, questa ironia snob, che esclude a priori qualunque riferimento diretto alle grandi narrazioni degli uomini nel loro tempo, a quella storia che tanti altri autori vogliono scrivere con la “S” il più possibile majuscola, nerbo indispensabile, mezzo e fine irrinunciabile di ogni narrativa sensata e di valore. La storia (minuscola, minuscolissima) è, in Nabokov, un dettaglio tra i tanti, parte del materiale di scena che ha da rimanere dietro le quinte, e che per quanto chiasso possa fare non merita la ribalta se non di riflesso e solo quando capita. Non sorprende, dunque, che l’avvento di Hitler sia evocato e liquidato per sempre in poche parole, “l’ascesa di una nauseante dittatura”; nauseante e ridicola più che per la natura totalitaria (o, come dicono alcuni, antiumanistica o antiumanitaria) della sua ideologia, piuttosto per la pretesa rozza e isterica di farsi l’incarnazione di spiriti storici e destini collettivi irrevocabili.
D’altra parte anche Il dono è una concretizzazione di quell’idea di letteratura che Nabokov dichiara, senza mezzi termini, nella postfazione di Lolita: “Per me un’opera di narrativa esiste solo se mi procura quella che chiamerò voluttà estetica, cioè il senso di essere in contatto, in qualche modo, in qualche luogo, con altri stati dell’essere dove l’arte (curiosità, tenerezza, bontà, estasi) è la norma” (pagina 392 dell’edizione italiana). Già, Lolita. Serena Vitale, nella sua più che sentita postfazione a Il dono avverte il lettore di certa critica che definisce “lolitocentrica”, critica che alle opere di Nabokov nate “prima del 1995 assegna il ruolo di periferia del capolavoro, di laboratorio o incubatrici in cui ci si limita a scorgere i segni del prodigio a venire”. Ma la puntuale postfazione di Vitale, che come “guida” a Il dono di Nabokov può risultare quasi salvifica, non riesce a evitare di porsi, in più punti, proprio come una difesa di ciò di cui parla, una difesa consapevole d’essere più che necessaria. Il libro “più russo” di Nabokov, ci vien detto, e di questo ce ne eravamo accorti già percorrendo faticosamente le sue pagine meno dense e poi annaspando e arrancando lungo il micidiale quarto capitolo, un’ipotesi di saggio biografico sulla vita di Černyševskij (“Chi era costui?”), il più importante critico letterario russo del secolo XIX. Nabokov ci informa nella sua prefazione che questo quarto capitolo al tempo gli venne cassato dall’editore perché giudicato poco rispettoso della Storia e della morale, un capitolo scandaloso e volgare; ma il maligno lettore dei nostri tempi può divertirsi a immaginare, piuttosto, un’altra motivazione, nata dagli sbadigli versati su quelle pagine dai correttori di bozze.
Il confronto con Lolita è purtroppo inevitabile, e il lettore più occasionale non potrà che preferire quest’ultimo, mille miglia lontano dal codice iniziatico for fans only de Il dono. Lolita, la cui ironia luminosa, la cui profonda intelligenza e l’arte della scrittura sono certamente parenti più che strette de Il dono, ma la cui accessibilità è infinitamente più ampia. Nessuna polemica sui maggiori o minori diritti della letteratura universale, se l’arte debba/possa essere dei molti o dei pochi, del disinteresse per un largo pubblico che, anche in grado di leggere e far di conto, rimane comunque un bue che pascola nei rotocalchi. È un ben più semplice e terreno dispiacere per la dispersione, per lo spreco (diciamolo pure) di un talento così grande e inesauribile. Un talento che è capace di aprirsi al di fuori del proprio angusto recinto, di quella attitudine entomologica che il Nabokov studioso di lepidotteri riserva allo studio e alla contemplazione delle parole. È bello poter immaginare che la cura con cui Nabokov chiudeva i colori rari dei proprî insetti al di sotto del vetro lucido delle teche sia la stessa con cui allinea le più elaborate cromature degli eventi entro la cristallina rivestitura della sua prosa. Ricamo letterario ricercato che in Lolita chiunque è in grado di apprezzare, perché la citazione dotta c’è ma coglierla non è vincolante alla comprensione generale. Il dono, invece, che sembra richiedere almeno qualche laurea in letteratura russa, frustra pagina dopo pagina il lettore (quello futuro), rinchiudendo entro gabbie esoteriche un gioco stilistico e romanzesco sicuramente eccellente ma, purtroppo, quasi sempre soltanto intuibile, raramente accessibile quel tanto che basterebbe per gustarne anche solo un poco.

"Dar" recenzija prezentuje kao svojevrsni Bildungsroman i fiktivnu autobiografiju mladoga ruskog pesnika koji živi u Berlinu 1920-ih godina i kreće se u krugu ruskih emigranata koji su napustili Rusiju nakon revolucije i građanskog rata.

Zapravo, reč je o demonstraciji književne sile ovog pisca. Čas prvo, čas treće lice, čas poezija, čas proza, gomila istorije ruske književnosti, kritike i aluzija. I Leptiri, leptiri, leptiri.
Kad bolje razmislim, nema bitnijeg dela koje sam pročitala, a da ga on ovde nije pomenuo, direktno ili indirektno (a mogu da pretpostavim koliko je onoga što ne vidim).
Što bi mladi rekli - rokanje!
Upozorenje za one koji traže akciju i fascinaciju: ni u tragovima.

Marcel Proust è presente in questo romanzo non viene citato ma c'è... Le protagoniste del romanzo sono due la letteratura russa e Zina... Fedor pensa di scrivere il romanzo che noi leggiamo alla fine del romanzo.

il pallone perduto e infine ritrovato, il dialogo non fatto e infine quello fatto, il romanzo non pubblicato e infine il romanzo pubblicato


PS pure noi abbiamo il nostro Nabokov... si chiama Giorgio Manganelli non Umberto Eco ma Giorgio Manganelli

"De gave" is de laatste roman die Nabokov in het Russisch schreef, en volgens velen de beste van zijn Russische romans. Sommige Nabokov- fans, met name uit Rusland, vinden het zelfs zijn beste boek ooit. Zelf vind ik "Lolita" en "Pale Fire" nog steeds Nabokovs meesterstukken, maar veel bladzijden in "De gave" zijn voor mij net zo netvliesscheurend prachtig als de allerbeste bladzijden in Nabokovs allerbeste romans. Ik genoot kortom zeer, nog meer zelfs dan toen ik het jaren geleden voor het eerst las.

Hoofdpersoon is Fjodor, een dichterlijke ziel die de hele roman lang ontwaakt als dichter en als romancier. Ook is hij een verbannen ziel, want hij is een voor het Leninisme gevluchte Rus die leeft en droomt en dicht in het Russische emigranten-milieu in het Berlijn van rond 1925. Veel passages in "De gave" staan dan ook bol van verbeeldingskracht, nostalgie, snakkend terugverlangen naar het verloren paradijs van de Russische kindertijd. Soms volgen we Fjodors nostalgische dromen vanuit een hij- perspectief, dan ineens weer vanuit ik- perspectief, en vaak worden we helemaal ondergedompeld in een schitterend tafereel dat ineens een drogbeeld blijkt te zijn: de schittering van een half- verbeeld, half- herinnerd overweldigend prachtig Russisch landschap, waar Fjodor zich - net als de lezer- helemaal middenin waant.... om ineens te beseffen dat hij midden in Berlijn is en dat "iets" op associatieve wijze dat Russische landschap in hem deed ontstaan. Dat brute ontwaken uit zijn droom in de werkelijkheid is natuurlijk pure desillusie. Tegelijk is dromen zijn gave: dat is zijn vermogen om op associatieve wijze vervoerd te raken van werelden voorbij de alledaagse werkelijkheid, en om zich niet neer te leggen bij de beperkingen van die werkelijkheid. Precies dat maakt hem tot dichter, romancier, kunstenaar.

Zelf denkt hij dat hij als enige in staat is tot "dat geheimzinnige, delicate iets" wat hij, bij benadering, aanduidt als "het multipele denken". En dat is een soort pluralistisch denken en waarnemen vol verbeeldingskracht, dat zich niet aan conventies en rationele begrenzingen stoort: "je kijkt naar iemand, en ziet hem zo helder alsof hij van glas is en jij de glasblazer, en tegelijkertijd, zonder dat het die helderheid in het minst verstoort, valt je oog op een klein visueel detail ergens terzijde - zoals het feit dat de schaduw van een telefoonhoorn op een reusachtige, ietwat verkreukelde mier lijkt- terwijl er onderhand (alles op één en hetzelfde moment) op dit kruispunt nog een derde gedachte arriveert - de herinnering aan een zonnige avond op een klein spoorwegstation ergens in Rusland; en geen van die beelden staat in enig redelijk verband met het gesprek dat je voert, waarbij je voortdurend in gedachten de buitenomtrek van je eigen woorden en de binnenomtrek van de woorden van je gesprekspartner aftast". "De gave" staat vol met prachtige voorbeelden van dit multipele denken. Bijvoorbeeld de al genoemde passages waarin Fjodor midden in Berlijn ook in een half- verbeeld, half- herinnerd Rusland is. Of passages waarin personages, nadat we hen lang in gesprek hebben gezien met Fjodor, ineens een fantoom blijken te zijn: ze bestaan in de werkelijkheid niet maar in de dimensies van de verbeelding tegelijk wel, en precies dat brengt Nabokov prachtig over.

Maar ook zijn er passages waarin Fjodor allerlei onverwachte esthetiek ziet middenin de alledaagse werkelijkheid: "Overstekend naar de drogist op de hoek wendde hij onwillekeurig zijn hoofd om vanwege een lichtflits die was afgeketst op zijn slaap, en zag, met die snelle glimlach waarmee we een regenboog of een roos begroeten, hoe een verblindend wit parallellogram van lucht uit de verhuiswagen werd geladen- een toilettafel met spiegel, waarover, als over een filmdoek, een smetteloos heldere weerkaatsing voortgleed van takken die zwierden en zwaaiden, niet op boomeigen wijze, maar met een menselijke schommelbeweging, voortkomend uit de aard van degenen die deze lucht, deze takken en deze glijdende gevel met zich meedroegen". Waar een normaal mens alleen verhuizers ziet met een toilettafel met spiegel, ziet Fjodor dus een hele wereld vol beweeglijke schoonheid in die spiegel. En ook uit het raam kijkend ziet hij wat grofstoffelijke mensen als u of ik niet zien: "In de wrongel- en weikleurige hemel vormde zich nu en dan een opalen holte, waar de blinde zon haar baan ging, en in antwoord daarop haastten zich dan op het grijze bollende dak van de verhuiswagen de slanke schaduwen van lindetakken hals over kop naar verstoffelijking, maar vervaagden weer zonder zich te hebben gematerialiseerd".

"De gave" is, misschien, vooral de roman over de voortgaande ontwikkeling van de esthetische sensibiliteit, van vervoering, van vreugde om de rijkgeschakeerde pracht van de werkelijkheid, en van de verbeeldingskracht die ons de ogen opent voor die pracht. Het is in ieder geval de roman van een ontwakend en ontwikkelend dichterschap, van een fysieke en mentale ontdekkingsreis, en van een zich ontwikkelende liefde. Het tweede hoofdstuk bijvoorbeeld is een soort reconstructie van de adembenemende ontdekkingsreizen van Fjodors verdwenen en overleden vader: een reconstructie vol smart vanwege het gemis van die vader met zijn zo immens rijke en hooggeleerde geest, maar ook vol jubel vanwege de ongehoorde pracht die de vader in zijn ontdekkingsreizen heeft geëxploreerd. Die pracht is ook weer vol smart, omdat Fjodor niet weet wat zijn vader zag en dat allemaal zelf moet verzinnen, maar tegelijk ook vol jubel omdat Fjodor met zijn verbeeldingskracht ons en zichzelf de meest ongehoord onconventionele beelden voor ogen tovert. Zoals: "De bomen leken voortgebracht door het delirium van een plantkundige: een witte lijsterbes met albasten bessen of een berk met rode schors!". En dat wordt nog versterkt door verwijzingen naar Poesjkin. Fjodor is, als zich ontwikkelend dichter, helemaal idolaat van Poesjkin. Maar die idolatrie is ook een extra verbinding met zijn vader, die minstens zo idolaat was van deze dichter. Fjodor zegt over de exploratiedrift van zijn vader onder andere: "Omdat er dingen waren die hij wilde kunnen uitdrukken, even natuurlijk en onbevangen als de longen zich willen uitzetten, moesten er ook woorden bestaan waarmee men kon ademen". En juist Poesjkin leert zijn lezers ademen, want eerder werd over Fjodor zelf het volgende gezegd: "Het hele voorjaar zette hij zijn trainingsprogramma voort, voedde hij zich met Poesjkin, ademde Poesjkin (de lezer van Poesjkin krijgt een grotere longcapaciteit)". De onbevangen taal van Poesjkin, die de dingen benoemt alsof ze voor de eerste keer worden gezien zodat de dingen bevrijd worden van alle clichés.... DAT is de taal die Fjodor zelf zoekt, en DAT - zo denkt Fjodor- is de taal die Fjodors vader zocht. "Poesjkin voer hem in het bloed. Poesjkins stem en die van zijn vader vloeiden ineen", zo ervaart Fjodor dan ook: de ontdekkingsreiziger en de dichter zoeken beiden woorden die de dingen opnieuw laten ademen. Want beiden kijken met "wijdgesperde oogrokken- om Poesjkin te parafraseren".

Ontroerend, hoe Fjodor zijn verloren vader met Poesjkin verbindt en Poesjkin met zijn verloren vader. Maar nog mooier vind ik hoe hij zijn vaders exploratieve oog associeert met Poesjkins dichterlijk oog - Poesjkins "wijdgesperde oogrokken"- , en hoe hij dus de ontdekkingsreiziger en de dichter met elkaar versmeedt. Poesjkin is voor Fjodor dus vooral zo inspirerend omdat hij in zijn dichtkunst en zijn proza ook een ontdekkingsreiziger was, die nieuwe werelden exploreerde. Nieuwe werelden die kunnen ademen doordat ze zijn ontdaan van de conventies, de clichés, de blik van de burgerman die de dingen al te snel definieert en daarmee versimpelt.

Vooral hoofdstuk 2 van "De gave" is dan ook een waanzinnig inspirerend eerbetoon aan Poesjkin en aan het explorerende reizen in onbekende werelden en dimensies. Zoals het fraaie hoofdstuk 3 vol staat met toespelingen op de door Nabokov bewonderde Gogol. Voor mij bovendien des te aanstekelijker, omdat ik van Gogol houd en sinds kort ook van Poesjkin. Hoofdstuk 4 is dan weer een satire in de stijl van Saltikow, een schrijver die ik niet ken. Dus dat hoofdstuk zei mij minder. De satire op een vrij simplistisch naar de wereld kijkende Russische intellectueel sprak mij echter toch wel aan, omdat daarin Nabokovs haat tegen de versimpelende en verarmende blik op de wereld mooi voelbaar wordt. Bovendien is dit een boek ingebed in een boek: de satire, zo beseffen we geleidelijk aan, is het eerste boek dat Fjodor geschreven heeft en dat in hoofdstuk 3 al even werd aangekondigd. Hoofdstuk 4 van dit boek is dus een boek in een boek, met een andere hoofdpersoon dan in de andere hoofdstukken, en ook geheel anders van toon .... Ook weer een voorbeeld van het "multipele denken" waar Fjodor van houdt: we krijgen niet één boek, maar twee.

Maar pas daarna volgt voor mij de climax: hoofdstuk 5, waarin Fjodor zijn liefde voluit voelt voor de geadoreerde Zina Merz en tegelijk de contouren ziet van zijn eerste roman. Wie weet is dat "De gave" zelf, zodat de roman eindigt met een hoofdstuk dat gaat over de geboorte van diezelfde roman. Een roman dus die in zijn staart bijt, die eindigt bij zijn begin? Een roman als een cirkel? Het is hoe dan ook een roman die weigert conventioneel te eindigen: "Maar als ik einde schrijf, klinkt er voor wie doordenkt, geen slotakkoord: mijn wereld werpt haar schaduw ver voorbij de einder van het woord, die blauw is als de ochtendmist- en ook daarmee is niets beslist". Eerder werd al geopperd dat Fjodors "creatie niet de gedaante van een boek zou hebben, een die in zijn eindigheid strijdig is met de cirkelvormigheid van al het bestaande, maar integendeel die van een continu gekromde en dus oneindige zin". Alsof "De gave" zich niet wil neerleggen bij de eindigheid en begrenzingen van de alledaagse werkelijkheid. Alsof de roman weigert te eindigen, en weigert zich neer te leggen bij een gedefinieerde begrensde vorm.

"De gave" was voor mij een prachtige ontdekkingsreis, die ik met wijdgesperde oogrokken heb gelezen. Ik ken maar weinig romans die zo dichterlijk het ontwakend bewustzijn bezingen van een dichter. Ik ken ook weinig van zulke aanstekelijke lofzangen op de Russische literatuur, op het multipele denken, en op het vermogen om alles met wijdgesperde oogrokken te bekijken alsof je het voor het eerst ziet. Zonder herkenning, zonder je neer te leggen bij de gangbare definities, zonder ooit op te houden met kijken, want zonder het ooit te herleiden tot iets bekends. Jammer dat het boek nu uit is. Maar wat is het mooi dat ik het weer heb gelezen.

It’s an unfortunate consequence of being one of the world’s greatest writers that you can create this text about literary creation (in its own a stunning novel) - simply because you’ve written 4 other really really good books - it will be read less.

Thought when I read the intro that this was above my pay grade. I haven’t read nearly enough Gogol, Pushkin, any other of the literary greats to understand fully what Nabokov accomplishes here. And yet, I did thoroughly enjoy it, and I look forward to revisiting some chapters, esp chapter 2, after discovering more Russian Lit.

Worth noting though not fully translated by Nabokov himself, he did “approve” this one and again the scope of what this novel accomplishes in translation is incredible.

Not going to lie this was intimidating, also on it’s own an instructive, and a beautifully crafted KünstlerRomanx. Perfectly walking the line between meta, melodrama, and indulgent

I hesitate to give anything by Nabokov such a low rating, but I found the Gift to be stuffy, pretentious, tedious, and at times downright dull. Admittedly, I am not well acquainted with 19th century Russian literature. Having an in depth knowledge and appreciation of the likes of Pushkin, Gogol, and Chernyshevsky is a prerequisite for enjoyment of the Gift. You will otherwise be lost with all the namedropping and style referencing. There are, of course, bits of Nabokov brilliance that shine through for the average reader. A passage here and there that makes the heart soar or elicits spontaneous laughter. The book's structure is itself a piece of art. Pay attention to the subtle shifts in point of view which serve as cues that you are reading a book within a book (within a book). Those small rewards were only just enough to keep me going.

Reading 'The Gift' was an unforgettable mind-blowing experience.
I haven't read some of Nabokov's works yet, so to me 'The Gift' is the most impressive work among the ones I have. To me Nabokov is the Writer par excellence. Although the beauty, sophistication and complexity of his prose might be lost in translation, some translators do a really good job.

“Thus it transpired that even Berlin could be mysterious. Within the linden's bloom the streetlight winks. A dark and honeyed hush envelops us. Across the curb one's passing shadow slinks: across a stump a sable ripples thus. The night sky melts to peach beyond that gate. There water gleams, there Venice vaguely shows. Look at that street--it runs to China straight, and yonder star above the Volga glows! Oh, swear to me to put in dreams your trust, and to believe in fantasy alone, and never let your soul in prison rust, nor stretch your arm and say: a wall of stone.”

CRITIQUE ["WORKIN' ON MYSTERIES WITHOUT ANY CLUES"]:

Random Collection Of Consonants

As soon as I started "The Gift", I realised that it was so long since I'd read any serious Russian literature (my reading life started with Gogol and Turgenev, followed shortly after by Laurence Sterne), that I was no longer used to the random collection of consonants that constituted most Russian surnames.

The two principal surnames in "The Gift" are Cherdyntsev and Chernyshevski. Once you look closely at their structure and verbalise them, they're quite different, and easily differentiated.

The second feature that facilitated my reading of the novel was the fact that there were five chapters of almost identical length.

Soon the end of each chapter became a signpost and a measure of distance travelled, that gave me a sense of progress as I made my way through the novel.

1.1 Russian Émigrés in Berlin

The first chapter (like most of the novel, apart from chapter 4) is set in the Russian émigré community in Berlin in the 1920's. It's not always clear whether the characters are exiles from late Tsarist Russia, or refugees from revolutionary Russia.

However, the ones we meet (authors, poets, critics, and journalists) all belong to political and literary circles, who meet in halls and salons to discuss, critique and bicker over books,pamphlets and periodicals that they've written or read. They all have strong opinions (not always positive) about works that come to their attention, even if they've been written by a friend. Friends' books seem to garner the most unrestrained criticism.

That said, literature is not just a rest or break from real life, it's a vital part of life in its own right. You are nothing if you aren't reading or writing. Literature is a measure of your engagement in life.

1.2 Some Bizarre Love Triangle

The centre of attention in the first chapter is Yasha Chernyshevski, a poet who is supposedly the great-grandson of the famous 1860's writer, philosopher and author of the novel, n  "What is to Be Done?",n Nikolay Chernyshevski.  Yasha commits suicide when caught in a bizarre love triangle (“a triangle inscribed in a circle”). It's hinted that he is the only one who honoured his promise in a triangular suicide pact:

n
"He said he would shoot himself by right of seniority…and this simple remark rendered unnecessary the stroke of drawn lots…"
n

The narrator is another poet, Fyodor Godunov-Cherdyntsev, who has just published his first volume of poems, to little critical attention or appreciation.

It seems that poetry, for Fyodor, is just a first step in his writing career, one day to be followed by a biography and/or a novel (potentially, a fictionalisation of the "events" we are reading about in Nabokov's novel).

Many in the circle are keen to give Fyodor advice on his next step.

Another poet suggests: "Look, you ought to write a little book in the form of a biographie romancée about our great man of the sixties…Nikolay Chernyshevski was indeed a heroic soul."

Yasha's grief-stricken mother wants Fyodor to write a novel about her son (whom he resembles physically). Fyodor is reluctant, never having been that close to Yasha when they were at university:

n
"Everything that to his mother was filled with enchantment only repelled me. As a poet he was, in my opinion, very feeble: he did not create, he merely dabbled in poetry, just as thousands of intelligent youths of his type did; but if they did not meet with some kind of more or less heroic death…, they subsequently abandoned literature altogether…"

"I had no desire at all to write about the great man of the sixties and even less to write about Yasha, as his mother persistently counselled for her part (so that, taken together, here was an order for a complete history of their family)."

"…I was both amused and irritated by these efforts of theirs to channel my muse…"
n

2. The Expeditions of Fyodor's Father

In chapter 2, assuming Fyodor is the writer/narrator (he leaps between first and third person throughout), Fyodor's first writing focuses on his father's life story, including his interest in butterflies:

n  
n  "A love of lepidoptera was inculcated into him by his German tutor. By the way: what has happened to those originals who used to teach natural history to Russian children - green net, tin box on a sling, hat stuck with pinned butterflies, long, learned nose, candid eyes behind spectacles...?"n  
n

It's this sort of detail that has given rise to speculation that the novel is partly autobiographical. However, it's probably more correct to say that Nabokov consistently farmed his (and his family's) life for literary detail:

n  
n  "...he might go off on his journeys not so much to seek something as to flee something, and...on returning, he would realise that it was still with him, inside him, unriddable, inexhaustible."n  
n

3. Zina Mertz - "Girl Made to Measure"

The autobiographical detail seems to continue into chapter 3, which, in addition to containing a love interest by the name of Zina Mertz (possibly based on Vera?), refers several times to the game of chess and knight moves.

Fyodor and Zina are very close:

n  
n  "…not only was Zina cleverly and elegantly made to measure for him by a very painstaking fate, but both of them, forming a single shadow, were made to the measure of something not quite comprehensible, but wonderful and benevolent and continuously surrounding them."

"Despite the complexity of her mind, a most convincing simplicity was natural to her, so that she could permit herself much that others would be unable to get away with, and the very speed of their coming together seemed to Fyodor completely natural in the sharp light of her directness."n  
n

Zina is also extremely supportive of Fyodor's writing career (having been one of the few people to purchase a copy of his first book of poems):

n
"Oh, I have a thousand plans for you. I have such a clear feeling that one day you’ll really lash out. Write something huge to make everyone gasp."
n

Zina believes Fyodor has a gift.

4. "The Life of Chernyshevski"

Despite Fyodor's apparent reservations, chapter 4 contains a biographical essay about the life and works of Nikolay Chernyshevski, which is presumably the work that Fyodor is supposed to have written. We can also assume that chapter 1 is his story about Yasha.

This juxtaposition of fiction and non-fiction is a precursor to the poem and fictional criticism in n  "Pale Fire".n

Fyodor is as devoted to the world of fiction as he is patriotic to his homeland and its literature:

n  
n  "Love only what is fanciful and rare;
What from the distance of a dream steals through;
What knaves condemn to death and fools can’t bear.
To fiction be as to your country true."n  
n

5. Love and "Wars of Words"

In chapter 5, Fyodor describes his writing goals in terms of the infinite:

n
"Definition is always finite, but I keep straining for the faraway. I search beyond the barricades (of words, of senses, of the world) for infinity, where all, all the lines meet."
n

Like n  "Finnegans Wake",n the end of "The Gift" circles back to the beginning of the novel.

In this chapter, we also see the reviews of Fyodor's essay. It was not sufficiently laudatory of Chernyshevski to gain positive reviews, and some of them are positively damning. Those who did not go to war engaged in "wars of words".

Nevertheless, Zina remains loyal to Fyodor:

n  
n  "I like it all immensely. I think you'll be such a writer as has never been before and Russia will simply pine for you - when she comes to her senses too late...But do you love me?"n  
n

To which, Fyodor responds:

n  
n  "What I am saying is in fact a kind of declaration of love."n  
n

Zina pleads for more:

n
"A 'kind of' is not enough. You know at times I shall probably be wildly unhappy with you. But on the whole it does not matter, I'm ready to face it."
n

"On the Whole It Does Not Matter"

Nabokov's exemplary, quinary, "kind of" novel belongs firmly in the modernist tradition, though he was averse to using the term himself, and many post-modernists would soon borrow his methods (including imitation, juxtaposition, and mockery).


VERSE:

Farewell Owed to Pushkin
[by Vladimir Nabokov]

"Good-bye, my book! Like mortal eyes,
imagined ones must close some day.
Onegin from his knees will rise
– but his creator strolls away.
And yet the ear cannot right now
part with the music and allow
the tale to fade; the chords of fate
itself continue to vibrate;
and no obstruction for the sage
exists where I have to put The End:
the shadows of my world extend
beyond the skyline of the page,
blue as tomorrow’s morning haze
– nor does this terminate the phrase."


HOMAGE:

Some Bizarre Triangular Suicide Pact

As Quentin Tarantino intuited in n  "Reservoir Dogs",n it must be more difficult than you think to stage a triangular suicide pact or shoot out.

Imagine, to start with, that X (a male)) is in love with Y (a female), Y is in love with Z (a male), and Z is in love with X. But none of the couples is happy (if two people are happy, then the third must be unhappy), and the three, who are all good friends, resolve to end their lives by suicide. It must happen all the time. If not here, then in Russia.

Assuming they only had one revolver between them, it's unlikely that, even with the ultimate goal of happiness (or absence of unhappiness) in mind, all three lovers could or would commit suicide simultaneously.

It's more likely that there would be at least one murder required. Thus, one plausible outcome is a suicide, a murder, and a suicide. Another might be a murder, a murder and a suicide. A suicide seems to be necessary for the survivor of the first two deaths.

One more conjecture: all three lovers decide to wear gloves, so that no fingerprints are left on the single revolver they plan to use.

So, let's start with Z shooting himself. This leaves X and Y alive. So, imagine that Y works up the courage to shoot X. Now, X and Z are dead, and Y must commit suicide, to fulfill their pact.

What if Y reneges on their vow to commit suicide? Especially while they are surrounded by the bloody mess of the two dead lovers. Wouldn't this experience have quenched their appetite for death?

Y is more fragile than ever, and in need of sympathetic and understanding love.

Imagine, further, that you are F, and that unbeknown to any of the other three (X, Y or Z), you were in love with Y. This would, finally, leave you, F, to pursue your love of Y, without a rival. Even though, Y is a murderer, having been responsible for (and technically guilty of) the death by murder of X.

Fortunately, each death has involved the same revolver, and it's not possible to prosecute Y for any of the deaths, because everybody has worn gloves. So there is no criminal judicial obstacle in the way of F and Y establishing a relationship, and living happily ever after.

What could possibly go wrong?

I wonder whether the Coen Brothers might have any ideas.


SOUNDTRACK:

Bob Seger - "Night Moves"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xH7cS...

"Workin' on mysteries without any clues..."

Courtney Barnett - "Write A List Of Things To Look Forward To"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MTrdz...

Complete with game of chess...

The The - "This Is the Day"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ZYgK...

Kraftwerk - "The Hall of Mirrors"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_TPAy...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EaWDt...

New Order - "Bizarre Love Triangle [Extended Version]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5DmOV...

New Order - "Bizarre Love Triangle [Live at Reading Festival, 1998]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQU9R...

New Order - "Blue Monday"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9GMjH...

Orkestra Obsolete - " Blue Monday"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHLba...

Severija - "Zu Asche, Zu Staub" [from the "Babylon Berlin" soundtrack]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uekZp...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=30PPd...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VTzkZ...

English lyrics

Vim - "Random Collection Of Consonants"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RGeoE...

I really wish I understood this book better.

Far far better than all time highly overrated lolita and one of the best works of Nabokov.

Nabokov looms as one of the navigational stars, glimmering against a novelist's horizon just when things seem darkest. THE GIFT makes my Goodreads list because it's the book I came to most recently, maybe 30 years after PALE FIRE & his other American novels rewired my makeup for good. This one is his European masterpiece, a transcendent reimagining of himself & his small family as they shuttled between apartments in central Europe, vagabond souls with a more-than-half-mad notion of keeping the flesh in place around them by means of love & art alone. But the autobiographical element is but the smallest of the figures in the marvelously colored nest of Russian dolls. The primary plotline concerns a wayward Russian emigré poet in Berlin, a 1920s slacker with genuine talent but little grasp of how the world works, discovering his calling & his backbone in the sketchiest sort of writing-about-writing project imaginable: a book that knits together little-known Russian poets & critics, all of them eventually impoverished exiles, in what becomes almost a saintly vision, the triumph of -- what else? -- love & art. The effect is improbably compelling to the reader, a deepening enchantment, & the climax might be compared to finding fairy-tale rainbows in the mud puddles of the Gulag, & then riding those parti-colored lights to freedom. On top of that, the book has an astounding publication history. After magazine excerpts indisputably established the author as a young genius, THE GIFT then went four decades without appearing between covers. Anyone who cares about story in its highest forms can afford to overlook this one, glimmering on the horizon.