Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited (Vintage International)

I honestly don't consider myself competent to judge whether Nabokov is one of the century's greatest writers. Like many of his contemporaries, much of his work is so obscure as to defy my comprehension, but I do very much like what I understand in Pale Fire and Lolita, both of which made the Modern Library Top 100 Novels of the Century, and, of course, to read him is to be exposed to an English language and a prose style that one little knew existed. So I am more than willing to acknowledge that he was a singular and immense talent. It is altogether fitting then that his memoirs too should be unique. For the most part, Nabokov's mission here is literally to let his memory speak. In so doing he recreates late czarist Russia in loving, painstaking detail. While to the best of my knowledge Nabokov was never particularly identified with the anti-Communist émigré movement, this book is its own kind of indictment of the USSR. The case it lays out is not the political or the economic one but the historical and cultural one. As he says: My old (since 1917) quarrel with the Soviet dictatorship is wholly unrelated to any question of property. My contempt for the émigré who "hates the Reds" because they "stole" his money and land is complete. The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood, not sorrow for lost banknotes. And finally: I reserve for myself the right to yearn after an ecological niche: ...Beneath the sky Of my America to sigh For one locality in Russia. The crimes of the commissars are without number and most are far greater than this, but this richly textured, impossibly specific and deeply moving memoir so brilliantly transports the reader to what seems to have been a wonderful and altogether innocent existence that to that list of crimes must be added the Bolsheviks utter destruction of this world. Even if you've never liked any of his other books, do yourself a favor and read this one. Even the passages that defy comprehension are beautiful. GRADE: A

The finest writing in English by an ESL writer that I have ever had the pleasure of reading (Nabokov learned to write in English before he learned to write in Russian). Kinda makes Joseph Conrad look like a kindergartner. Nabokov uses words I have never heard before (much less seen), and many phrases in Russian or French, but his writing is utterly unpretentious. His word choices are made with well-educated precision and his descriptions of life in pre-Bolshevik Russia are vivid and moving. (Makes me wonder what that country might have been like if it weren't for the heinous predations of Lenin, Stalin and the Soviets.) If you liked Clifton Webb's Waldo Lydecker ("Laura," 1944), you'll love Nabokov's voice here. Of course, there is no plot, per se; it's an autobiography. But if you thought "Lolita" was over-rated, give this slim volume a whirl.

An Annotation on the writing Speak, Memory is a loose collection of correlated and somewhat chronological personal short story memoirs by Vladimir Nabokov. These cover approximately the first forty years of his life, though they mostly focus on his childhood years growing up in Russia and Europe. The fifteen chapters each stood on their own at one time or another, most published in popular magazines, including The Atlantic Monthly, The New Yorker, Partisan Review, and Harper’s Magazine, before they were brought together in this collection when he was in his late sixties. Many of these were translated and re-edited by Nabokov from stories he originally wrote in French or Russian and they were revisited again when published together in this format in 1967. There were three areas that especially impacted me as a new writer. The memoir is rich in word choice and the images created in my head cemented his story in a memorable way. I loved the analogies Nabokov used to paint a picture of his early life. These original analogies brought his story to life in a fresh way. Finally, his use of leading comments to foreshadow future events was creative and impactful and I hope to replicate some of these techniques in my own stories. The deep images where usually created with small powerful statements – demonstrating to me that with the right words you do not have to explain an entire backstory – the language itself will capture it without it the need for long descriptive paragraphs. One example was how he portrays his parents as having a deep love and respect for each other throughout the book. The sentence, “The double gleam on her fourth finger is two marriage rings – her own and my father’s, which, being too large for her, is fastened to hers by a bit of black thread” (50) speaks volumes, yet it is simple and powerful in its imagery. He does the same throughout the book when speaking of his father and their relationship of love and respect. Nabokov’s use of original analogies is something I would love to do and it inspired me to begin thinking about analogies and writing them down, as I have a tendency to go to well-worn and overused analogies that have lost their original thought provoking power to native English speakers. One example in his introduction is when he informs us he will not be rehashing summaries of his novel in this book, stating, “I felt that the trouble of writing them had been enough and that they should remain in the first stomach.” (14); Other examples speak for themselves, “It was the primordial cave that lay behind the games I played when I was four.” (22); “To fix correctly, in terms of time, some of my childhood recollections, I have to go by comets and eclipses, as historians do when they tackle the fragments of a saga.” (25); “…by the time I was ten, nature had effaced with the thoroughness of a felt eraser wiping out a geometrical problem.” (40); “Not only were the kitchen and the servants’ hall never visited by my mother, but they stood as far removed from her consciousness as if they were the corresponding quarters in a hotel.” (45); “Apart from the lips, one of her chins, the smallest but true one, was the only mobile detail of her Buddha-like bulk.” (105); “The rain, which has been a mass of violently descending water wherein the trees writhed and rolled, was reduced all at once to oblique lines of silent gold breaking into short and long dashes against a background of subsiding vegetable agitation.” (216) “Seen through the carefully wiped lenses of time, the beauty of her face is as near and as glowing as ever.” (230); “Of the games I played at Cambridge, soccer has remained a wind-swept clearing in the middle of a rather muddled period.” (267); “Leftist groups of sparrows were holding loud morning sessions in lilacs and limes.” (295). His use of analogy is not exaggerated; instead it is simple and easy to follow and captures in a fresh way the moment he is trying to portray. Lastly, I was impressed by his use of leading sentences foreshadowing events in a powerful and simple way. Some examples include; “But that was not yet the closest I got to feeding upon beauty.” (24); “The other police story involves a less dramatic masquerade.” (56); “…had I been a better crystal-gazer, I might have seen a room, people, lights, trees in the rain – a whole period of émigré life for which that ring was to pay.” (81) “…and ten years were to pass before a certain night in 1922, at a public lecture in Berlin, when my father shielded the lecturer from the bullets of two Russian Fascists...” (193) As a memoirist, I took a number of other things from his writing, including the way he visualizes and describes events as young as four (31) and seven (53) without it feeling inauthentic to the reader; the way he jumps from memory to memory in each chapter and doesn’t follow a strict chronological sequence; and the way he goes deep when sharing his passions, including using the actual names of the butterflies he catches – give us detailed descriptions of the differences between an Oak Egger or Large Emerald butterfly or a Goat moth and a Silvius Skippe moth. Lastly, his book is packed with memorable quotes and wisdom and I will end with some of those that jumped out at me. “Our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.” (19) “To love with all one’s soul and leave the rest to fate, was the simple rule she heeded.” (40) “One is always at home in one’s past…” (116) “I discovered in nature the non-utilitarian delights that I sought in art. Both were a form of magic, both were a game of intricate enchantment and deception.” (125) “…a person hoping to become a poet must have the capacity of thinking of several things at a time.” (218) “I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip. And the highest enjoyment of timelessness – in a landscape selected at random – is when I stand among rare butterflies…this is ecstasy, and behind the ecstasy is something else…It is like a momentary vacuum into which rushes all that I love. A sense of oneness with sun and stone. A thrill of gratitude to whom it may concern – to the contrapuntal genius of human fate or to tender ghosts humoring a lucky mortal.” (139)

It would be the height of hubris to write a review of Nabokov’s masterpiece; I’ll merely try to point out some of the points that struck this reader the most. Of all the literature I’ve read, it resembles most À la recherche du temps perdu. The meditations on memory, its impressionistic portraits of aristocratic life, the long, evocative sentences that run on with more of a sense for beauty than for what the words signify—it’s an admirable approximation of Proust. It’s also the most realistic portrait I’ve read of upper class life in Tsarist Russia. The tutors, servants, escapades in the family estate—all of these are turned into something one can appreciate; a far cry from Bolshevik propaganda. Finally, Nabokov wouldn’t be the intellect he is if he didn’t play with the notion of memory and autobiography. The goddess of memory speaks and the reader is led to believe that he’s reading the verisimilitude of an event. But then, with a swoop of a sand artist’s hand, the picture is wiped away and a new one is drawn. Nabokov even says that the autobiographical elements of his fiction make it difficult for him to recover the actual past. Whose is the memory that is speaking? It’s best left to each reader’s personal judgement. A great work, necessary reading for all who want to absorb a twentieth century author who can seem as enigmatic as the purported author of an ancient epic. Highest recommendation.

I mainly knew Nabokov through Lolita, a brilliant book, but came to realize that he was a much broader writer than just that book. This autobiography reads like a novel but with the kind of beautiful language you would expect from such an accomplished writer. HIs life is really interesting being of a wealthy Russian family going through the revolution and ending up pushed out and ruined. Still, his sense of beauty in life and human experience offers a lesson for all. This is a rich and detailed book with lovely writing, I highly recommend it, especially to those who appreciate Russian writers.

3 starts for "I liked it" -- Thought not the best of the stories I've read (literary-autobiography-wise, nothing I've read surpasses Bruno Schulz's The Street of Crocodiles), this charming, rather haphazardly collated collection of Nabokov's autobiographical episodes is certainly worth reading for its breathtaking prose, unique and incisive ruminations on various subjects, and revealing, behind-the-scenes vignettes and thoughts of one of the most fascinating writers of the 20th century. The only major misgiving I had was the bland, woolgathering reveries I had to trudge through. But then there are these passages that soar into the Unreal and leave me gasping for breath. From the very first sentence ( "The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness"), Nabokov proves himself again and again to be the master prose stylist that he was. Just read this description of the moon: So there it comes, steering out of a flock of small dappled clouds, which it tinges with a vague iridescence; and, as it sails higher, it glazes the runner tracks left on the road, where every sparkling lump of snow is emphasized by a swollen shadow (p.99). In these instances, I simply must surrender, prostrate, to Nabokov with my humble hat off. I was also pleasantly surprised to find myself laughing over some of the vignettes (esp. in Chapter 6). Take, for example, this one: One summer afternoon, in 1911, Mademoiselle [my favorite along with Nabokov's father] came into my room, book in hand, started to say she wanted to show me how wittily Rousseau denounced zoology (in favor of botany), and by then was too far gone in the gravitational process of lowering her bulk into an armchair to be stopped by my howl of anguish: on that seat I had happened to leave a glass-lidded cabinet tray with long, lovely series of the Large White. Her first reaction was one of stung vanity: her weight, surely, could not be accused of damaging what in fact it had demolished; her second was to console me: Allons donc, ce ne sont que des papillons de potager! - which only made matters worse. (127) Funny, incisive, and lyrical, the book is a great read especially if you're a writer. Like some reviewer has written, "time with Nabokov is invariably time well spent." And it is true. He shows us the secret passageways and hidden nooks of the English language that other writers have completely overlooked. Although the book lacks unity and there are episodes I couldn't care less about, it is simply delightful to follow his prose, stumble over obscure charming words, and be surprised, accompanied by that guttural groan of awe and satisfaction at witnessing the magician of words at work.

Nabokov's memoir, "Speak, Memory" is, to my way of thinking, one of the best autobiographies ever written. My daughter bought it for me for "Fathers Day" because I had loaned our copy to some happy soul who never returned it. All well and good. That book is in somebody's custody now and I hope it's being enjoyed. Who wrote "great" autobiographies? Benvenuto Cellini, certainly, Winston Chuchill, probably. Nabokov's story is about a guy who chose English as the language in which he would write novels... among the 18 or 19 languages in which he was fluent. He wrote "Lolita," of course, but also "Ada," (my favorite) and a raft of other astonishing fictions. The beneficiary of an education the likes of which is unavailable today, Nabokov was born to pre-1917 Russian aristocracy. When maybe 90% of the Russian people were illiterate, he had tutors in Mandarin, Greek, German, etc. In his youth, he was an accomplished entomologist... his work resulted in a butterfly being named after him when he was 15. After the Russian Revolution, the Nabokov family dispersed. In "Speak, Memory," we find him working as a tennis pro in Berlin. More great stuff as he wends his way to Cornell where he taught lucky and beleaguered undergraduates late in his life. The "life" of Vladimir Nabokov is fascinating enough. That life rendered by Nabokov himself is an exceptional experience for the reader. Pretty good book.

Personally, I like everything Nabokov did if only because reading him makes me a better writer. He is a "master stylist" cut from the cloth of James Joyce (in terms of his innovation and talent) who challenges his audience at every turn. When devouring his fiction, I am sure that there are many things I miss due to my being no great genius of literary analysis, but time with Nabokov is invariably time well spent. I make a point of circling those lines and turns of phrase which are strikingly original in the hopes that my own skills improve via his brilliant examples. I do the same thing with vocabulary words which was particularly the case with Speak, Memory as I bracketed off those terms with which I am not familiar. Thus, it seems that studying Nabokov is an essential tutorial for the aspiring writer. This, his autobiography, is absolutely charming and easily accessible for those readers intimidated by his other works. The author describes his early life in Russia--and vicariously, life in Tsarist Russia in general--and provides us with a captivating history of his family. Unfortunately, I found that it ended too soon. I longed for another 200 pages so his development as a novelist could be more fully explored. Nabokov, like so many writers, appears to have been the quintessential introvert and his environmental struggles are quite compelling. This is an astounding work that should be consulted repeatedly.

The book and print quality is perfect.

How an autobiography should be written - detailed memory events strung along a wispy timeline but informing the historical perspective of Russia, pre, during and post revolution from inside. Having recently read a lot of ‘easy’ books the challenge of this writing and use of language was a welcome mind wash

Voici un livre qui évoque une Russie qui n’est plus . Début vingtième siècle, c’est une vie privilégiée que mènent les Nabokov ,habitant l’hiver à St Petersbourg et l’été dans leur domaine à la campagne (Vyra ). Dans cette famille on voyage régulièrement en Europe ,ainsi Vladimir maîtrise plusieurs langues étrangères dès son plus jeune âge. Qu’évoque l’auteur ? - sa passion dès 7 ans pour les papillons - ses nombreux précepteurs - Ses amours de jeunesse - Son exil en Crimee puis en Europe - Ses études à Cambridge Quelques moments émouvants : 1914: Vladimir lit à sa mère une de ses premières poésies qu’il a écrite, celle ci très émue ne peut cacher ses larmes . 1917 : La famille est ruinée, il faut rejoindre la Crimee et s’y cacher .Dimitri doit dire adieu à sa patrie . Vladimir expliquera ce qu’est la vie en exil... Ce livre plein de souvenirs nostalgiques ne laisse pas indifférent, il est très bien écrit dans un anglais pas toujours facile...

A pleasure to read

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