Vladimir Nabokov (if the universe were just, I would be writing "Nobel Prize-winner Vladimir Nabokov," but the universe is not just) wrote King, Queen, Knave in Russian in 1928, when he was an emigre living in Berlin. His son, Dmitri Nabokov (born after the novel was written) translated it from Russian to English in 1968, with Vladimir Nabokov making several changes to the story itself during the translation process. I read the English version, which is beautifully written.

The book is nominally set in Berlin, but, as Nabokov says in the introduction, it could be set anywhere. As he also says in the introduction, the plot is an ancient plot, familiar to anyone who has read Madame Bovary or Anna Karenina (or as Nabokov pedantically insists, "Anna Karenin," in English).

I hate to write much more about the plot, because a great deal of the enjoyment and delight I derived from reading this book came from NOT KNOWING WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN NEXT. I was continually in a state of suspense and was surprised at many turns.

The rest of the enjoyment and delight came from Nabokov's language (damn good even in translation, and especially funny when he recounts some of the characters' clumsy attempts at speaking English) and his writing. His use of interior monologues is so masterful that I even liked the wicked queen, Martha Dreyer. Nabokov'll do that to you: who doesn't like Humbert Humbert, even as we are digusted by him?

The book contains a moral, which is no less applicable to the reader making wishes as she reads as it is to the characters: be careful what you wish for.

بنده یک دوست عزیزی دارم به نام فرزاد. این آقا فرزاد، همونیه که به من لولیتا رو داد و اسفندِ پیرارسال (وای خدا چه ترسناک، دو سال گذشته) منو با لولیتا دیوانه کرد و درحالی‌که تولد یکی از بچه‌ها رفته بودیم یه کافه‌ای که اون زمانا خیلی دوستش داشتیم و الان کمتر، من داشتم یه بند در وصف لولیتا آه و ناله سر می‌دادم که حاجی این چی بود تو نوشتی. ریویوی اینجامم که هست. وسط تولد من داشتم همه‌ش مویه می‌کردم سر لولیتا.

حالا، فرزاد یه کتاب دیگه از ناباکوف آورد و من منتظرم برم بش بدم و باهاش حرف بزنم. چیزایی که در نظر دارم بش بگم، اینه که، من معمولاً با یه اثر سعی می‌کنم دربارۀ یه نویسنده قضاوت نکنم و دیدی نداشته باشم، بااین‌حال ناباکوف با یه اثر، لولیتا، قلب منو تسخیر کرد. :دی اما، این شیفتگی دیری نپایید و من ازین حادثه غمگینم. باید اعتراف کنم که شاه بی‌بی سرباز اصلاً به کیفیت لولیتا نبود، البته که سیر نویسنده هم در لولیتا به تکامل رسیده بود و این اثر جزو اولین کارهاشه، فکر کنم.

شاه بی‌بی سرباز هم مثل لولیتا اگه یکی برام ایده‌ش رو تعریف کنه، می‌گم عوق، من بمیرمم این کتاب رو نمی‌خونم. چطور یه نویسنده حاضر می‌شه اینو بنویسه. اونم ناباکوف. یه غولِ روسیِ میان‌دورۀ کلاسیک و مدرن، که توی کارهاش، حداقل تا اینجایی که من خوندم، از هردو دوره ویژگی‌هایی رو داره. این کتاب هم مثل لولیتا یه شروع میخکوب‌کننده داره و مه‌آلود و وهم‌آور. خیلی شروعش مالیخولیایی و سیاهه، ولی پس‌زننده نیست و منو دنبال خودش کشوند. مارتا رو دلم می‌خواست خفه کنم. بعد شوهرش رو دلم می‌خواست خفه کنم. بعد اون پسرکِ احساساتی مسخره رو. خلاصه، ناباکوف اینجا هم تونست خشم و بیزاری منو برانگیزه، ولی اون لذت لولیتا رو بهم نداد. ابداً، حتی نزدیکش هم نشد.

دیدم یکی توی ریویوش نوشته یه جاهایی خسته‌کننده بود. آقا خسته‌کننده کمه، یه جاهایی من یادم می‌رفت دارم چی می‌خونم! اینقد خسته‌کننده بود، یا چی. این از خسته‌کننده فراتره. خیلی بد بود. خیلی طول کشید و کشش داد تا رسید به انتها. انتها هم اوجی نبود. خیلی انتها عجیب بود. هم پایان جالبی بود، هم نبود. هم فهمیدم چی شد، هم نه. لولیتا بااینکه حجم زیادی داشت، گمونم بالغ بر ششصد صفحه، هیچ‌جاش من خسته نشدم. ریتم هم آروم می‌شد، من احساس ملال نمی‌کردم. اینجا بعد از شروع، بارها افت کرد. یه ذره بلند شد، دیالوگ‌ها و شخصیت‌پردازی‌های زیرکانۀ ناباکوفی اومدن، باز پرت شد پایین.

غمگینم کردی ناباکوف. ولی هنوز دوستت دارم لعنتی. می‌خوام یه فرصت دیگه بت بدم، تا کارهای بعدی. :دی

+ احتمالاً خیلی کار زشتیه که به ناباکوف سه ستاره بدم، ولی می‌دم. شاید بعد بیام چار ستاره کنمش، ولی به لحاظ حسی اصلاً برام چهار ستاره نبود.

+ بی‌ربط: راستی، آقای رضا رضایی رو از نزدیک دیدین و برخورد داشتین؟ همین آبان من تهران توی کتابفروشی هنوز دیدم‌شون، و چقد ایشون مهربون و گرم و گوگولی‌ان. :((((

An interesting, clever novel about a love triangle. Dreyer, the financier, is married to Martha. Martha grows to find her husband distasteful and decides to have a young lover. She choses Franz Bubendorf, a young man from a small town who is sent from home to work in the Berlin department store of his well to do mother’s cousin, who Franz calls ‘uncle’, Kurt Dreyer. Martha dominates the relationship with Franz. Dreyer remains unaware of his wife’s infidelity. Martha becomes obsessed with planning the death of her husband. Franz reluctantly goes along with her scheming.

Another interesting and thought provoking Nabokov read.

This book, the author’s second novel, was first published in Russian in 1928.

King, Queen, Knave by Vladimir Nabokov

I liked the overall detachment lingering throughout the novel. Despite the given descriptions of feelings and emotions, the characters manage to stay empty, both to the world and the people in their lives. Each is fixated on their own problems (be them grand or insignificant), unable to hear the others, not willing to take part in their worries, or misinterpreting their feelings. The same might be applied to all locations (including Berlin, not mentioned even once by its name)--basic placeholders, existing only to make up a scene.

Still, even though I'm okay with works revolving around mundane topics with no mind-games with the reader whatsoever, compared to the previous novel--Mary--this one feels like a step back. Akin to the atmosphere, I was detached from the book, deprived of the interest. The narration was a constant repetition of what had been said before countless times. Knowing Nabokov, that could've been intentional, but to me, it doesn't really matter. From what I've read on Wikipedia, he even made changes later during the Russian to English translation, adding elements indicating the author's presence in the book or consisting of more symbolism and metaphors related to the title. Not really a fan of this move--if you were unable to implement an element or thought of it later, use it in another work, don't rewrite what is already there (Yeah, I'm looking at you, Blade Runner.) Plus, by doing that you deprive the Russian speaking readers of those changes. That's why my version didn't have those additions all, and I'm sure my perception wouldn't change in case they were.

In any case, that was one of Nabokov's first works, with him still testing the ground, so I'm not really complaining with the book being eh. I'm hyped for the The (Luzhin) Defense, since this novel is considered to be among the best in Russia.

Quotes:

He was reading attentively and with pleasure. Nothing existed beyond the sunlit page. He turned the page, looked around, and the outside world avidly, like a playful dog waiting for that moment, darted up to him with a bright bound. But pushing Tom away affectionately, Dreyer again immersed himself in his anthology of verse.

“I love him but he is poor,” she said jokingly. And suddenly her expression changed. She imagined that she, too, was penniless, and that here, in this shabby little tavern, among befuddled workmen and cheap floozies, in this deafening silence with only that clock clucking, a sticky wine glass before each, the two of them were whiling away their Saturday night.

She fancied with horror that this tender pauper really was her husband, her young husband, whom she would never, never give up. Darned stockings, two modest dresses, a broken comb, one room with a bloated mirror, her hands coarse from washing and cooking, this tavern where for one reichsmark you could get royally drunk.…

“You see, sweetheart, one cannot deposit dreams at the bank. They aren’t dependable securities, and the dividends they bring are nothing.”

“...You see, people generally make all kinds of plans, very good plans, but completely fail to consider one possibility: death. As if no one could ever die...”

She realized how difficult it was in these circumstances to reason logically, to develop simple, smooth, elegant plans, when everything within her was screaming and raging. Yet if she must survive something had to be done. Dreyer was spreading out monstrously before her, like a conflagration in a cinema picture. Human life, like fire, was dangerous and difficult to extinguish; but, as in the case of fire, there must be, there simply must be, some universally accepted, natural method of quenching a man’s fierce life. Enormous, tawny-haired, tanned from tennis; wearing bright yellow pajamas, redly yawning; radiating heat and health, and making the various grunting noises that a man who cannot control his gross physicality makes when waking up and stretching, Dreyer filled the whole bedroom, the whole house, the whole world.

Horror and helpless revulsion merged in those nightmares with a certain nonterrestrial sensation, known to those who have just died, or have suddenly gone insane after deciphering the meaning of everything.

They were walking along the sunlit side of the street. His companion, the black-bearded Inventor, kept hinting that it might not be a bad idea to cross over to the other, shady, sidewalk. But Dreyer did not listen. If he enjoyed the sun, others were bound to enjoy it too.

What prevented him from seeing the world? He had the means—but there was some fatal veil between him and every dream that beckoned to him. He was a bachelor with a beautiful marble wife, a passionate hobbyist without anything to collect, an explorer not knowing on what mountain to die, a voracious reader of unmemorable books, a happy and healthy failure. Instead of arts and adventures, he meanly contented himself with a suburban villa, with a humdrum vacation at a Baltic resort—and even that thrilled him as the smell of a cheap circus used to intoxicate his gentle bumbling father.

He stopped in the passage, stunned by an unpleasant thought: good manners bade him take leave of old Enricht. He put down the suitcases and knocked hurriedly at the landlord’s bedroom door. No answer. He pushed the door and stepped in. The old woman whose face he had never seen sat with her back to him in her usual place. “I’m leaving; I want to say good-by,” he said, advancing toward the armchair. There was no old woman at all—only a gray wig stuck on a stick and a knitted shawl. He knocked the whole dusty contraption to the floor. Old Enricht came out from behind a screen. He was stark naked and had a paper fan in his hand. “You no longer exist, Franz Bubendorf,” he said dryly, indicating the door with his fan.

Still farther inland came in a row the facades of lesser hotels, pensions, souvenir shops. The balcony of the Dreyers acted the hotel’s name. Franz’s room sulkily faced a town street parallel to the promenade. Beyond that stretched the second-class hotels, then another parallel lane with the third-class accommodations. The further from the sea the cheaper they grew as if the sea were a stage and they, rows of seats.

P.S. While looking for the quotes in the English version of the book, I realized Nabokov either deleted/edited some of them or replaced them with a different text. So many changes just to include a couple of new metaphors and ideas absent in the original book. My disappointment has grown even stronger.

Once again Nabokov blew my mind.
This is one of the most heartbreaking endings I've ever read.

نابوكوف نابغه ست!
از روسيه به خاطرِ دادن اين همه نابغه ادبيات بينهايت سپاسگذارم!

Набоков — совершенно гениальный писатель, который настолько виртуозно владел русским языком, что, я уверен, занял бы в русской культуре то же самое место, что и Пушкин, если бы не его эмиграция (и, как следствие, холодное игнорирование в советский период).

Набоковская "Машенька" — одно из моих любимейших произведений ever, в "Приглашении на казнь" есть один настолько неожиданно смешной момент, что он врезался мне в память сияющим топором. "Лолита" — чудесный (и в то же время жутковатый) роман с двойным дном. "Соглядатай" с уникальной структурой повествования. В общем, когда "Арзамас" мне напомнил, что есть ещё набоковские романы (и рассказы!), которые я не читал, то оставалось лишь открыть вавилонскую библиотеку и постараться восполнить культурные пробелы.

"Король, дама, валет" — берлинская история о том, как бедный, едва оперившийся племянник приезжает из глубинки в ослепительную столицу к богатому дядюшке, устраивается к нему на службу, но потом заводит отношения с замужней женщиной и что из всего этого выходит. Я бы сказал, что сюжет тут незамысловат, и быть может немного затянут, но при этом прекрасно проработаны персонажи (дополнительным украшением служит эпизодический старичок с очень гибкой гранью между реальностью и фантазиями), а также на редкость достоверно описаны всевозможные стадии развития "запретных" отношений — разные для каждой из сторон (говорю как человек, сам неоднократно бывавший в подобных ситуациях).

Ну и самое главное — неподражаемый набоковский язык, искрящийся остроумными описаниями и ловкими сравнениями в каждом предложении каждого абзаца. Поначалу читать даже немного сложновато, как стихи. Мозг, привыкший к простому, прямолинейному тексту, ощутимо скрипит от неожиданной нагрузки. Но вот уже через несколько страниц привыкаешь, с наслаждением растворяешься в книге, как в горячей ванне, и получаешь ни с чем не сравнимое удовольствие.

"Вне солнцем освещённой страницы не существовало сейчас ничего. Он перевернул страницу, и весь мир, жадно, как игривая собака, ожидавший это мгновение, метнулся к нему светлым прыжком, — но ласково отбросив его, Драйер опять замкнулся в книгу".

تقریباً در بیست روزی که مریض بودم خوندمش از میون منگی مسکن‌ها و فشار درد و ضعف. اما هر پاراگرافش پامو از زمین جدا می‌کرد و باعث می‌شد سنگینی جسمم رو فراموش کنم. به «دوستی» گفتم وقتی می‌خونمش با خودم می‌گم «آخیش بالاخره ادبیات.»

3,5/5

V. Nabokovo kūrybos gerbėjai, be abejo, perskaitys ir šį, išsiskiriantį iš viso autoriaus kūrybinio palikimo, romaną (jokiu būdu ne išsiskiriantį blogąja prasme – tiesiog jis kitoks). Jeigu V. Nabokovas nebūtų sukūręs žinomiausių savo romanų („Lolita“, „Pninas“, „Tikrasis Sebastjano Naito gyvenimas“ ir t.t.), šis – manau – vis tiek būtų išlikęs žymaus rašytojo kūrybiniame palikime, nors tai tik antrasis jo romanas, parašytas 1928 m.

Romano pradžia džiugina puikiu autoriaus gebėjimu vaizduoti herojų išorę, tiesiog klasikiniais, geriausia šio žodžio prasme, pastebėjimais. Stebėtina, kad autorius jau toks profesionalus kūrybinio kelio pradžioje – jo talentas negalėjo likti nepastebėtas. Bet... Turbūt galima suprasti, kodėl to meto kritikams daug kas nepatiko, net šokiravo – tokius kūrinius publikuoti dar buvo per anksti. Net autoriui prisipažįstant, kad tai tik parodija, draugiškas šaržas pagal klasikų kūrinius. Nabokovas metė iššūkį, su kuriuo tęsė „Lolitą“, o ir kituose kūriniuose apstu dalykų, kurie buvo avangardiniai tuo metu. Bepigu rašyti dabar, kai viskas leidžiama...

Romanas prieštaringas: gan įtikinamai aprašyta, kaip elgiasi žmogus, sudaužęs akinius (būtent taip atsitiko pagrindiniam herojui Francui atvykus į Berlyną), ne mažiau įtaigios ir kitos scenos (pvz., pardavėjo apmokymo), – tobuli klasikiniai tekstai, – bet romano siužetas gan banalus, neprilygstantis nei Flobero „Poniai Bovari“, nei Stendalio „Raudona ir juoda“ (su šiais romanais – kaip parodijuojamais – bandoma lyginti Nabokovo kūrinį).

Man šis romanas nepasirodė nei geltonosios literatūros, nei bulvariniu skaitalu (kaip kartais teigiama) – akivaizdu, kad autorius kruopščiai prie jo padirbėjo, gerai apgalvojo struktūrą ir sukūrė savotišką, skaitytojui kiek nelauktą pabaigą. Ypatingai negiriu šio romano, bet ir peikti negaliu. Būna ir taip... Nepagerino knygos kriminalinė gija – šiek tiek įnešė intrigos, bet psichologiškai menkai pagrįsta, neįtikina.
Romane gausu talento perliukų, bet į gražų vėrinį jie nesusidėliojo – dažna pradedančiųjų rašytojų bėda.

Mano vertinimo objektyvumą (manau) suponuoja ir tai, kad pradėdamas skaityti knygą neturėjau ypatingų lūkesčių – tik antrasis autoriaus romanas, nesvarbu, kad dabar savotiškai žinomo ir prieštaringai vertinamo rašytojo, bet ne genijaus. Tad nesitikint romane rasti gelmių, tenkino ir seklumos (pvz., neįtikinantys siužeto posūkiai). Nors kai kurie literatūros tyrinėtojai, rašydami apie Nabokovo kūrybą, bando šio romano neprisiminti, galbūt manydami, kad ir pats autorius nelabai vertino šį jaunystės kūrinį, vis dėlto pats Nabokovas praėjus 40 metų po parašymo, 1968 metais, kai romanas buvo verčiamas į anglų kalbą (nes šis, o ir pirmasis, jo romanai buvo parašyti rusų kalba), tam ne tik neprieštaravo, bet ir dar kartą perskaitė romaną, paredagavo tekstą ir parašė pratarmę amerikiečiams skaitytojams.

کتاب لذت بخشی بود به خصوص توصیفات قشنگ مناظر و رویدادها و استعارات بی نظیر..

"Dintre toate romanele mele, aceasta nemaipomenita fiara e cea mai jucausa" spunea Vladimir Nabokov despre opera de fata. Asadar si recenzia mea o sa fie una amuzanta si jucausa.
Romanul este un tribut adus lui Flaubert prin "imitatia deliberata" a creatiei sale "Doamna Bovary" si infatiseaza un trio amoros cuprinzand un sot, o sotie si un amant (regele, dama si valetul).
Actiunea are in prim plan un cuplu alcatuit din frumoasa Martha si Dreyer, care calatorind cu trenul ajung sa stea in acelasi compartiment cu un tanar neobisnuit, care se va dovedi ulterior a fi ruda cu Dreyer. Franz se ducea la Berlin pentru a obtine o slujba tocmai la magazinul detinut de unchiul sau Dreyer. El ajunge sa devina un intim si un musafir constant al casei celor doi soti si acest lucru va da nastere la o idila intre el si Martha. Cu timpul, cei doi se indragostesc si Martha ajunge chiar sa se gandeasca la diferite moduri de a-si ucide sotul.
Felul in care Martha il seduce pe Franz este demn de o mare dama, cu miscari sublime, rafinate, deloc vulgare, calculate cu inteligenta, facute la momentul potrivit, ea fiind o maestra in arta seductiei.
Cum incepe idila? Cu o plimbare nevinovata pe strada unde, deodata, Marthei i se pare ca este ceva in neregula cu tocul pantofului ei si ii cere necoptului de Franz sa se sprijine de umarul lui, doar o clipa pentru a verifica. Cu alta ocazie, in timp ce sta pe scaun, Marthei i se desface un fir de la ciorap si lingandu-si un deget tamponeaza iute matasea ca sa nu se desire mai departe. Apoi se apleaca pentru a aranja coltul unui covor si adancimea dintre sanii ei devine vizibila tanarului. Cand ajung in intimitate si il dezbraca pe acesta isi infige "cele 10 unghii in fesele lui".
In ceea ce priveste parerea mea, ma tem ca este una ironica, deoarece Dreyer mi s-a parut un sot anost si insipid, foarte nepasator cu tot ce e in jurul lui si nu prea demn de titlul de rege desi ramane cu toata imparatia. Cred totusi ca a avut mult noroc pentru ca trebuie sa ai multa sansa atunci cand stai alaturi de femei cu ganduri criminale.
Martha este femeia fatala, seducatoare si rece, inteligenta insa lipsita de un destin pe masura. Uneori mi s-a parut enervanta, pentru ca e foarte directa si acida in vorbire si nazuroasa in purtare.
Nu stiu cum poate o femeie ca ea sa stea cu un asemenea sot (adica stiu - pentru avere) dar oare ce a impins-o sa se indragosteasca de Franz - cel mai palid tantalau si neputincios amant din istoria literaturii? Desi autorul nu ne releva in descriere, mie mi-a dat impresia ca Franz e doar putin mai frumos ca Yeti... Totusi, Martha a inceput idila cu mintea rece si sufletul gol, satisfacandu-si ego-ul si curiozitatea feminina, ca mai apoi sa-si piarda capul si sa se gandeasca pana la crima pentru dragostea lor.
Eu mereu am crezut ca cel mai inteligent pentru o dama este sa aiba mai multi valeti care sa-i duca trena si un singur rege in fata caruia sa ingenuncheze - si daca acesta e initial valet sa faca rege din el, daca il iubeste! :)
In incheiere atasez cateva citate care ne pot invata multe lucruri in viata si care sunt graitoare pentru aceasta carte:
"... Erica nu poate intelege ca raceala unei regine este cea mai buna garantie, fidelitatea perfecta."
"Probabil ca intregul ei farmec consta in faptul ca e asa de rece."
"Vezi, scumpul meu, visurile nu pot fi depuse la banca. Nu sunt titluri de valoare, de incredere, iar dobanzile pe care le aduc sunt zero."
"Inca odata, ca de atatea ori inainte, a trecut in revista toate pacatele sotului, in gand. I se parea ca si le aminteste pe toate."
"Orbit si stanjenit, si atat de tanar, a cugetat ea, cu un amestec de multumire si tandrete, ceara tanara, calda si sanatoasa, pe care-o poti manipula si modela pana ce forma sa iti e pe plac."
"Sufrageria mea, cerceii mei, argintaria mea, Franz al meu." (in aceasta ordine) :)

نظر من هم مثل بقیه، خیلی خسته کننده بود!