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Invitation to a Beheading
Cincinnatus, unable to fit into the world around him, has been reported to the authorities and sentenced to death for his strange, unrecognizable nature. Exploring the prison cell as he counts down his final days, Cincinnatus cannot even find out when the moment of his execution will occur, and is troubled by the lack of control a condemned man has over his own life.
Witty, satirical and nightmarish, Invitation to a Beheading creates a dystopian and fantastical world of political punishment, identity and the unusual hope of a man may carry to his death.
Witty, satirical and nightmarish, Invitation to a Beheading creates a dystopian and fantastical world of political punishment, identity and the unusual hope of a man may carry to his death.
192 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1935
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30947 people want to read
About the author
Vladimir Nabokov
889 books14.9k followersRussian:
Владимир Набоков
.
Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov, also known by the pen name Vladimir Sirin, was a Russian-American novelist. Nabokov wrote his first nine novels in Russian, then rose to international prominence as a master English prose stylist. He also made significant contributions to lepidoptery, and had a big interest in chess problems.
Nabokov's Lolita (1955) is frequently cited as his most important novel, and is at any rate his most widely known one, exhibiting the love of intricate wordplay and descriptive detail that characterized all his works.
Lolita was ranked fourth in the list of the Modern Library 100 Best Novels; Pale Fire (1962) was ranked 53rd on the same list, and his memoir, Speak, Memory (1951), was listed eighth on the publisher's list of the 20th century's greatest nonfiction. He was also a finalist for the National Book Award for Fiction seven times.
Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov, also known by the pen name Vladimir Sirin, was a Russian-American novelist. Nabokov wrote his first nine novels in Russian, then rose to international prominence as a master English prose stylist. He also made significant contributions to lepidoptery, and had a big interest in chess problems.
Nabokov's Lolita (1955) is frequently cited as his most important novel, and is at any rate his most widely known one, exhibiting the love of intricate wordplay and descriptive detail that characterized all his works.
Lolita was ranked fourth in the list of the Modern Library 100 Best Novels; Pale Fire (1962) was ranked 53rd on the same list, and his memoir, Speak, Memory (1951), was listed eighth on the publisher's list of the 20th century's greatest nonfiction. He was also a finalist for the National Book Award for Fiction seven times.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,517 reviews
May 28, 2023
We are all sentenced to death right from the start… right at birth. And all our life we wait for an execution which will come, sooner or later…
While it may seem at first that Invitation to a Beheading echoes The Trial by Franz Kafka actually this novel is its opposite… And in fact Vladimir Nabokov contemplates the nature of earthly existence…
Everyone is free to turn one’s existence into a gaol and live as a prisoner of conventions or escape conformity and enjoy true inner liberty…
And instead of the clear and precise work that is needed, instead of a gradual preparation of the soul for that morning when it will have to get up, when – when you, soul, will be offered the executioner’s pail to wash in – Instead, you involuntarily indulge in banal senseless dreams of escape – alas, of escape…
While it may seem at first that Invitation to a Beheading echoes The Trial by Franz Kafka actually this novel is its opposite… And in fact Vladimir Nabokov contemplates the nature of earthly existence…
Everyone is free to turn one’s existence into a gaol and live as a prisoner of conventions or escape conformity and enjoy true inner liberty…
May 2, 2019
Nabokov’s Cave
In his allegory of the Cave, Plato suggests a limit on human knowledge: that we see only shadows of reality. Immanuel Kant went Plato one better two millennia later and claimed that we can’t even apprehend the shadows properly, that even these in their ‘true selves’ are beyond comprehension.
Invitation to a Beheading offers an alternative to these classical philosophical, and inherently dismal and nihilistic, views. For Nabokov the world is not hidden beyond an epistemological veil. On the contrary, reality is so much in one’s face, “a tumult of truth,” so rampantly and fecundly ‘there,’ that it is effectively infinite. It is not erroneous perception that we experience but an abundance of perception that is too great to adequately describe.
Nabokov’s equivalent of Plato’s Cave is a prison cell in a fortress, at some indeterminate time in the future. But this is no ordinary prison; nor does it contain an ordinary prisoner. The prison provides three squares a day and a good roof over the head of Cincinnatus, the condemned protagonist. This is only as to be expected. But Cincinnatus’s cell is described as ‘deluxe’; his food is the same quality as the director’s. And the prison houses an outstanding library of which he makes intensive use. The staff are kindly folk who look after his every physical need from entertainment to regular bathing.
One could get attached to such a prison. Nabokov hints at the opinion that most do when he writes about “his [Cincinnatus’s] jailers, who in fact were everyone.”
But Cincinnatus is nevertheless stressed. Not because of his death sentence, but because he can’t get a confirmation for the date on which it is to be executed. This he finds intolerable:
Nevertheless his imprisonment and pending execution provide a sort of focused freedom for Cincinnatus. Among other things, it gives him time to dream, to recollect, and to write about his life. He can “see things clearly through the prison walls” that were previously invisible. And he feels driven to express them, “I have the feeling of boiling and rising, a tickling, which may drive you mad if you do not express it somehow.”
But there is too much to express. Not just of his life, but of the life he has suppressed and the dreams, which is also part of his experiential reality, much of which he has forced himself to forget. Facing death, he feels nonetheless, “I am the one among you who is alive”. But his life is overwhelming in its detail and complexity. It is infinite. Even the biography of an oak tree obtained from the library consists of more than 3000 pages; and it is still incomplete. Therefore, “I have lived an agonizing life, and I would like to describe that agony to you – but I am obsessed by the fear that there will not be time enough,” he informs the reader.
Cincinnatus’s justifiable conviction is for the crime of “gnostical turpitude.” The offense is not one of moral depravity nor a lack of discernment of good and evil. It is his persistent inability to appreciate conventional reality. Driven by either an inherent artistic muse or perhaps guilt on account of his previous attempts to conform, he must write, and write, and write, before it is too late - even though his writing must remain incomplete, composed of merely fragmentary descriptions from his imagination.
The problem that Cincinnatus discovers as he pursues the expression of his perceptual overload is that the world is entirely mad. And not just mad, but evangelistically so. Everyone in it tries to convince him to be reasonable and submit to reality. In conversation, his warden is enticing. He might be reprieved.
But Cincinnatus
Cincinnatus has no Freudian Death Wish. Quite the opposite. His fear of death overwhelms even his drive to write. Ultimately it is the conquering of this fear that gives him some sort of freedom. This is unlikely to be a pleasing ending for “the disciples of the Viennese witch-doctor [and] their grotesque world of communal guilt and progressive education.” Nor is it likely to be satisfying for those philosophers who contend that the world is alien to perceptive human beings.
In his allegory of the Cave, Plato suggests a limit on human knowledge: that we see only shadows of reality. Immanuel Kant went Plato one better two millennia later and claimed that we can’t even apprehend the shadows properly, that even these in their ‘true selves’ are beyond comprehension.
Invitation to a Beheading offers an alternative to these classical philosophical, and inherently dismal and nihilistic, views. For Nabokov the world is not hidden beyond an epistemological veil. On the contrary, reality is so much in one’s face, “a tumult of truth,” so rampantly and fecundly ‘there,’ that it is effectively infinite. It is not erroneous perception that we experience but an abundance of perception that is too great to adequately describe.
Nabokov’s equivalent of Plato’s Cave is a prison cell in a fortress, at some indeterminate time in the future. But this is no ordinary prison; nor does it contain an ordinary prisoner. The prison provides three squares a day and a good roof over the head of Cincinnatus, the condemned protagonist. This is only as to be expected. But Cincinnatus’s cell is described as ‘deluxe’; his food is the same quality as the director’s. And the prison houses an outstanding library of which he makes intensive use. The staff are kindly folk who look after his every physical need from entertainment to regular bathing.
One could get attached to such a prison. Nabokov hints at the opinion that most do when he writes about “his [Cincinnatus’s] jailers, who in fact were everyone.”
But Cincinnatus is nevertheless stressed. Not because of his death sentence, but because he can’t get a confirmation for the date on which it is to be executed. This he finds intolerable:
“... the compensation for a death sentence is knowledge of the exact hour when one is to die. A great luxury, but one that is well earned. However, I am being left in that ignorance which is tolerable only to those living at liberty.”In short: Cincinnatus’s predicament is universal.
Nevertheless his imprisonment and pending execution provide a sort of focused freedom for Cincinnatus. Among other things, it gives him time to dream, to recollect, and to write about his life. He can “see things clearly through the prison walls” that were previously invisible. And he feels driven to express them, “I have the feeling of boiling and rising, a tickling, which may drive you mad if you do not express it somehow.”
But there is too much to express. Not just of his life, but of the life he has suppressed and the dreams, which is also part of his experiential reality, much of which he has forced himself to forget. Facing death, he feels nonetheless, “I am the one among you who is alive”. But his life is overwhelming in its detail and complexity. It is infinite. Even the biography of an oak tree obtained from the library consists of more than 3000 pages; and it is still incomplete. Therefore, “I have lived an agonizing life, and I would like to describe that agony to you – but I am obsessed by the fear that there will not be time enough,” he informs the reader.
Cincinnatus’s justifiable conviction is for the crime of “gnostical turpitude.” The offense is not one of moral depravity nor a lack of discernment of good and evil. It is his persistent inability to appreciate conventional reality. Driven by either an inherent artistic muse or perhaps guilt on account of his previous attempts to conform, he must write, and write, and write, before it is too late - even though his writing must remain incomplete, composed of merely fragmentary descriptions from his imagination.
The problem that Cincinnatus discovers as he pursues the expression of his perceptual overload is that the world is entirely mad. And not just mad, but evangelistically so. Everyone in it tries to convince him to be reasonable and submit to reality. In conversation, his warden is enticing. He might be reprieved.
But Cincinnatus
“does not understand that if he were now honestly to admit the error of his ways... honestly admit that he is fond of the same things as you and I,... if he were honestly to admit and repent –yes, repent –that is my point –then he could have some remote – I do not want to say hope, but nevertheless...”When he refuses he is rebuked with an apt biblical reference, “You offer him kingdoms, and he sulks.”
Cincinnatus has no Freudian Death Wish. Quite the opposite. His fear of death overwhelms even his drive to write. Ultimately it is the conquering of this fear that gives him some sort of freedom. This is unlikely to be a pleasing ending for “the disciples of the Viennese witch-doctor [and] their grotesque world of communal guilt and progressive education.” Nor is it likely to be satisfying for those philosophers who contend that the world is alien to perceptive human beings.
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April 21, 2021It is amazing how farcical this book is considering the ominous title but it is also amazing how tragic it is considering the omnipresent farce.
Of course there is no better writer at manipulating our emotions than Vladimir Nabokov. In this novel, we are manipulated almost as much as Cincinnatus, the hero, whose emotions are played upon unmercifully not only by every character in the book but also by the author.
Nabokov takes delight in using vocabulary and phrasing that seem perfectly innocent at first glance. It’s only moments later that the axe drops, and the axe drops often, as in those ‘curio’ Russian toys where the bear chops the block over and over. It might be a simple remark that is made to the hero about the slenderness of his neck, or a comment about the odd shadow cast on it by the light. It might be the description of a beautifully sharpened pencil, as long as the life of any man except Cincinnatus, and with an ebony gleam to each of its six facets, or it might be the mention of the river Strop which seemed to curve like a sickle across the valley. In fact that curving river was mentioned so frequently that I looked up the word ‘strop’ — and discovered that it is a strip of leather used to sharpen a blade.
Nothing in this book is innocent. Not even Cincinnatus’s tendency to suffer from syncope or momentary lapses of consciousness. What’s the origin of that word, I wondered? Oh, right, to strike or cut off. And cope sounds like Kopf, the German for ‘head’.
Not to mention the jokes the characters like to tell each other: ‘Take the word “anxiety”,’ Cincinnatus’s brother-in-law, the wit, was saying to him. ‘Now take away the word “tiny”, eh? Comes out funny, doesn’t it?
Cincinnatus’s anxiety is actually less about the axe and more about knowing the moment it will fall. As a condemned man (but for what crime we are not told), he feels he has a right to the very thing that is the special privilege of the condemned: knowing the exact moment of death, and therefore how much time he has left.
But everything in the book conspires against that knowledge in the most absurd fashion, the walls, with their arms around each other’s shoulders like a foursome discussing a square secret in inaudible whispers, the chairs that moved about by themselves, the interchangeable prison director and warden, the child who flits about like a butterfly, the greedy velvet spider with hazel eyes which somehow resembled the prisoner’s wife.
And meanwhile there’s the absurdly interfering bong of the prison clock, it struck eleven times, thought for a moment, and struck once more, or it struck some unknown hour, now with banal dreariness, now with mounting exultation, finally with a hoarse rattle.
Some aspects of this story reminded me of Gogol’s The Overcoat or Diary of a Madman. In fact, more than in previous Nabokovs I’ve read, this book reminded me very much of Russian literature. Gogol’s shadow was all around but also Dostoyevsky’s. I frequently thought of Rodion Raskolnikov’s room in Crime and Punishment, and of all the strange people coming and going while Rodion lay silent and impervious to their efforts to make him speak. And there just happens to be a character here called Rodion.
Of all the absurdities in the book, not the least absurd is the situation of the reader at the beginning. The first page reads like it should be the last: the death sentence pronounced on the prisoner. What motivation have we to read on, knowing the outcome in advance? But we do, because, like Cincinnatus, we cannot resist hope.
As for the last page, when I finally got to it, I jumped up and ruffled my hair!
I hope Nabokov’s ghost is happy.
Of course there is no better writer at manipulating our emotions than Vladimir Nabokov. In this novel, we are manipulated almost as much as Cincinnatus, the hero, whose emotions are played upon unmercifully not only by every character in the book but also by the author.
Nabokov takes delight in using vocabulary and phrasing that seem perfectly innocent at first glance. It’s only moments later that the axe drops, and the axe drops often, as in those ‘curio’ Russian toys where the bear chops the block over and over. It might be a simple remark that is made to the hero about the slenderness of his neck, or a comment about the odd shadow cast on it by the light. It might be the description of a beautifully sharpened pencil, as long as the life of any man except Cincinnatus, and with an ebony gleam to each of its six facets, or it might be the mention of the river Strop which seemed to curve like a sickle across the valley. In fact that curving river was mentioned so frequently that I looked up the word ‘strop’ — and discovered that it is a strip of leather used to sharpen a blade.
Nothing in this book is innocent. Not even Cincinnatus’s tendency to suffer from syncope or momentary lapses of consciousness. What’s the origin of that word, I wondered? Oh, right, to strike or cut off. And cope sounds like Kopf, the German for ‘head’.
Not to mention the jokes the characters like to tell each other: ‘Take the word “anxiety”,’ Cincinnatus’s brother-in-law, the wit, was saying to him. ‘Now take away the word “tiny”, eh? Comes out funny, doesn’t it?
Cincinnatus’s anxiety is actually less about the axe and more about knowing the moment it will fall. As a condemned man (but for what crime we are not told), he feels he has a right to the very thing that is the special privilege of the condemned: knowing the exact moment of death, and therefore how much time he has left.
But everything in the book conspires against that knowledge in the most absurd fashion, the walls, with their arms around each other’s shoulders like a foursome discussing a square secret in inaudible whispers, the chairs that moved about by themselves, the interchangeable prison director and warden, the child who flits about like a butterfly, the greedy velvet spider with hazel eyes which somehow resembled the prisoner’s wife.
And meanwhile there’s the absurdly interfering bong of the prison clock, it struck eleven times, thought for a moment, and struck once more, or it struck some unknown hour, now with banal dreariness, now with mounting exultation, finally with a hoarse rattle.
Some aspects of this story reminded me of Gogol’s The Overcoat or Diary of a Madman. In fact, more than in previous Nabokovs I’ve read, this book reminded me very much of Russian literature. Gogol’s shadow was all around but also Dostoyevsky’s. I frequently thought of Rodion Raskolnikov’s room in Crime and Punishment, and of all the strange people coming and going while Rodion lay silent and impervious to their efforts to make him speak. And there just happens to be a character here called Rodion.
Of all the absurdities in the book, not the least absurd is the situation of the reader at the beginning. The first page reads like it should be the last: the death sentence pronounced on the prisoner. What motivation have we to read on, knowing the outcome in advance? But we do, because, like Cincinnatus, we cannot resist hope.
As for the last page, when I finally got to it, I jumped up and ruffled my hair!
I hope Nabokov’s ghost is happy.
March 12, 2024
Invitație la eșafod este un roman excelent și, ca atare, dificil. Nu-l poți citi dintr-o sorbire, e mai bine să-l străbați în doze mici. Dați-mi un singur exemplu de carte bună, care se citește ușor! Eu nu cunosc o astfel de capodoperă.
Nu știm unde și cînd se petrec întîmplările relatate de naratorul omniscient al romanului. Dacă ne luăm după numele proprii, probabil în Rusia. Oricum, într-o țară onirică, sau, mai bine, într-o lume pe dos, carnavalescă și abjectă. Personajele masculine folosesc din belșug parfumul, respectă o politețe exemplară și au o grijă înduioșătoare față de buna dispoziție a victimei. Funcționarii sînt foarte manierați. De exemplu, pentru a-l feri de un șoc nemeritat, Judecătorul îi divulgă acuzatului Cincinnatus C sentința în șoaptă (după cum prescrie Legea). Va fi decapitat cu binișorul. E transportat în fortăreață și închis într-o carceră (relativ) comodă.
Gardianul - un anume Rodion - îl primește cu nedisimulată bucurie, chipul lui e mereu „luminat de bunătate”. Pentru început, îl invită pe Cincinnatus la vals. Personalul închisorii trăiește, așadar, un moment festiv. Directorul îi urează „Bun venit!”. C primește o celulă cu pereții de un galben necruțător, cu fereastra de un ocru aprins, cu un bec în tavan. Auster, dar confortabil.
Treptat, în narațiune se insinuează absurdul. Vizita directorului devine vizită la director: directorul Rodrig Ivanovici intră în celula condamnatului și, la sfîrșitul discuției, prizonierul iese din cabinetul lui. Altă dată, Cincinnatus C. se plimbă liber prin temniță, pe coridoare și scări, iese într-o curte mică. Și fiindcă parola e tăcerea, trece prin mai multe porți fără să fie oprit de nimeni. Părăsește nestingherit „colosul cețos al fortăreței” și merge în oraș, ajunge acasă, urcă scara, împinge ușa și intră din nou în celula închisorii. Cum ar veni, a străbătut un cerc vicios...
Firește, C stă în celulă într-un halat negru, pătat de cenușă, poartă pe cap o tichie neagră de filosof și, cînd nu e vizitat de director și de gardian, își face notații în jurnal. Știe că nu are talent la scris, nici vocație de poet, dar s-a născut cu „o intuiție criminală” în așezarea cuvintelor în propoziții. Nu insist. În acest univers, totul e anapoda.
Firește, nu mai e nevoie să spun: Cincinnatus va muri fără a afla cu ce a greșit. Am găsit, totuși, cîteva sugestii. El însuși spune că a comis o „mîrșăvie gnoseologică”, suferă, așadar, de „turpitudine cognitivă”. Vrea să știe prea mult, dacă am înțeles bine. În sfîrșit, Concinnatus nu e transparent precum ceilalți oameni, e impermeabil la lumină. Păcatul lui e de a fi diferit.
Nu mai e nevoie să spun că în ajunul execuției, notabilitățile orașului dau un banchet în cinstea condamnatului. Stă în capul mesei. Cincinnatus e slujit de călău, musiu Pierre. Mai are rost să spun că romanul lui Vladimir Nabokov e de un umor demențial?
Nu știm unde și cînd se petrec întîmplările relatate de naratorul omniscient al romanului. Dacă ne luăm după numele proprii, probabil în Rusia. Oricum, într-o țară onirică, sau, mai bine, într-o lume pe dos, carnavalescă și abjectă. Personajele masculine folosesc din belșug parfumul, respectă o politețe exemplară și au o grijă înduioșătoare față de buna dispoziție a victimei. Funcționarii sînt foarte manierați. De exemplu, pentru a-l feri de un șoc nemeritat, Judecătorul îi divulgă acuzatului Cincinnatus C sentința în șoaptă (după cum prescrie Legea). Va fi decapitat cu binișorul. E transportat în fortăreață și închis într-o carceră (relativ) comodă.
Gardianul - un anume Rodion - îl primește cu nedisimulată bucurie, chipul lui e mereu „luminat de bunătate”. Pentru început, îl invită pe Cincinnatus la vals. Personalul închisorii trăiește, așadar, un moment festiv. Directorul îi urează „Bun venit!”. C primește o celulă cu pereții de un galben necruțător, cu fereastra de un ocru aprins, cu un bec în tavan. Auster, dar confortabil.
Treptat, în narațiune se insinuează absurdul. Vizita directorului devine vizită la director: directorul Rodrig Ivanovici intră în celula condamnatului și, la sfîrșitul discuției, prizonierul iese din cabinetul lui. Altă dată, Cincinnatus C. se plimbă liber prin temniță, pe coridoare și scări, iese într-o curte mică. Și fiindcă parola e tăcerea, trece prin mai multe porți fără să fie oprit de nimeni. Părăsește nestingherit „colosul cețos al fortăreței” și merge în oraș, ajunge acasă, urcă scara, împinge ușa și intră din nou în celula închisorii. Cum ar veni, a străbătut un cerc vicios...
Firește, C stă în celulă într-un halat negru, pătat de cenușă, poartă pe cap o tichie neagră de filosof și, cînd nu e vizitat de director și de gardian, își face notații în jurnal. Știe că nu are talent la scris, nici vocație de poet, dar s-a născut cu „o intuiție criminală” în așezarea cuvintelor în propoziții. Nu insist. În acest univers, totul e anapoda.
Firește, nu mai e nevoie să spun: Cincinnatus va muri fără a afla cu ce a greșit. Am găsit, totuși, cîteva sugestii. El însuși spune că a comis o „mîrșăvie gnoseologică”, suferă, așadar, de „turpitudine cognitivă”. Vrea să știe prea mult, dacă am înțeles bine. În sfîrșit, Concinnatus nu e transparent precum ceilalți oameni, e impermeabil la lumină. Păcatul lui e de a fi diferit.
Nu mai e nevoie să spun că în ajunul execuției, notabilitățile orașului dau un banchet în cinstea condamnatului. Stă în capul mesei. Cincinnatus e slujit de călău, musiu Pierre. Mai are rost să spun că romanul lui Vladimir Nabokov e de un umor demențial?
September 25, 2024
3.5/5
Nabokov’s Invitation to a Beheading, which largely takes place within the cramped confinements of a jail cell is possibly his most indubitable examination of a theme which seemed to have followed him throughout his career. That being the idea of a citizen who aspires to be different, the person who fails to assimilate, and the ways in which society either forces that divergent voice to join in unison, or ends up extinguishes it.
I have loved most of his work, simply down to that superlative prose, but this one felt a little different from the rest, with a bit of Kafka thrown in, and also George Orwell springs to mind. It also featured less of his dark sense of humour than some of his other novels, and as a whole, even though I wouldn't consider this near his best work, it's still Nabokov, and having read this twice now, I would say it was better the second thing around.
The set-up is quite simple - a man called Cincinnatus C awaits for the day of his execution, and through his eyes Nabokov demonstrates not only the mechanics of a totalitarian state, but the way in which any one of us can have our dignity stripped by the force of conformity. All Cincinnatus wants to know is when the time has come when he is going to die, but he is instead played around with mentally in one big game. He is constantly irritated by the jailers as they go about eating his food, turning his cell into their own office, trying to crack jokes, with one even wanting to dance with him to lighten the mood. And the thing is, they never at any time act with any cruel intentions towards him. They are seemingly befuddled by Cincinnatus, and vice-versa. Through their sprightly antics, Cincinnatus simply refuses to accept this role of playmate, and is holding out to his last breath against indignity.
Through the narrative (which, when I think about it could have worked as a play) Nabokov explores the ways in which a society can force mortification upon its members. Having no means of escape from his incarceration, all Cincinnatus can do is keep an astute stiff upper lip, and doggedly refuse to be a pawn in the tomfoolery of others. He, like any non-conformist in a society full of conformists, is in a no-win situation. If he conforms — plays his role in the little games that the jailers construct for him — he loses his dignity. If he refuses to conform he is treated like a child and must abide by in vexation.
Nabokov creates an absurd but scary vision of an irrational world, and while the nature of the writing here is somewhat Kafkaesque, Nabokov never actually read any Kafka when he wrote Invitation to a Beheading. In addition, neither Kafka, nor any writers dabbling with these themes combine their philosophy with surrealism in the same way or to the same degree as does Nabokov does in this novel. He is also clever in the way, that under the surface, there is more going on than meets the eye.
While I liked it, it's not anywhere near his best work.
Nabokov’s Invitation to a Beheading, which largely takes place within the cramped confinements of a jail cell is possibly his most indubitable examination of a theme which seemed to have followed him throughout his career. That being the idea of a citizen who aspires to be different, the person who fails to assimilate, and the ways in which society either forces that divergent voice to join in unison, or ends up extinguishes it.
I have loved most of his work, simply down to that superlative prose, but this one felt a little different from the rest, with a bit of Kafka thrown in, and also George Orwell springs to mind. It also featured less of his dark sense of humour than some of his other novels, and as a whole, even though I wouldn't consider this near his best work, it's still Nabokov, and having read this twice now, I would say it was better the second thing around.
The set-up is quite simple - a man called Cincinnatus C awaits for the day of his execution, and through his eyes Nabokov demonstrates not only the mechanics of a totalitarian state, but the way in which any one of us can have our dignity stripped by the force of conformity. All Cincinnatus wants to know is when the time has come when he is going to die, but he is instead played around with mentally in one big game. He is constantly irritated by the jailers as they go about eating his food, turning his cell into their own office, trying to crack jokes, with one even wanting to dance with him to lighten the mood. And the thing is, they never at any time act with any cruel intentions towards him. They are seemingly befuddled by Cincinnatus, and vice-versa. Through their sprightly antics, Cincinnatus simply refuses to accept this role of playmate, and is holding out to his last breath against indignity.
Through the narrative (which, when I think about it could have worked as a play) Nabokov explores the ways in which a society can force mortification upon its members. Having no means of escape from his incarceration, all Cincinnatus can do is keep an astute stiff upper lip, and doggedly refuse to be a pawn in the tomfoolery of others. He, like any non-conformist in a society full of conformists, is in a no-win situation. If he conforms — plays his role in the little games that the jailers construct for him — he loses his dignity. If he refuses to conform he is treated like a child and must abide by in vexation.
Nabokov creates an absurd but scary vision of an irrational world, and while the nature of the writing here is somewhat Kafkaesque, Nabokov never actually read any Kafka when he wrote Invitation to a Beheading. In addition, neither Kafka, nor any writers dabbling with these themes combine their philosophy with surrealism in the same way or to the same degree as does Nabokov does in this novel. He is also clever in the way, that under the surface, there is more going on than meets the eye.
While I liked it, it's not anywhere near his best work.
June 30, 2023
4.5
Some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express it, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.
Imagine being at a dentist’s- a very talkative and slow dentist- one of those who answer their phones several times while holding the dental drill over your open, drooling mouth. You are waiting for the torture to begin, knowing you have to have the tooth fixed; knowing there will be pain; meanwhile the dentist is talking to his wife about that night’s dinner. You want the inevitable torment to begin, so it all could end.
Now, imagine being sentenced to death, but not knowing when will the execution be carried out. Imagine the waiting…imagine the not knowing.
Welcome to Cincinnatus’s nightmare! Welcome to his hell!
How long have I left to live?
How long have I left to live?
How long have I left to live?
Some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express it, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.
Imagine being at a dentist’s- a very talkative and slow dentist- one of those who answer their phones several times while holding the dental drill over your open, drooling mouth. You are waiting for the torture to begin, knowing you have to have the tooth fixed; knowing there will be pain; meanwhile the dentist is talking to his wife about that night’s dinner. You want the inevitable torment to begin, so it all could end.
Now, imagine being sentenced to death, but not knowing when will the execution be carried out. Imagine the waiting…imagine the not knowing.
Welcome to Cincinnatus’s nightmare! Welcome to his hell!
How long have I left to live?
How long have I left to live?
How long have I left to live?
September 28, 2020
I know it irritated Nabokov when his novel was compared to that of other authors, in particular to Kafka’s The Trial (1915) and/or The Castle (1926), since as he claimed in his Foreword, he did not know anything about the Czech’s work when he wrote his novel in 1934. My Kafka remains at the very back of my mind; years have passed since I read him and the impressions have receded, so even without Nabokov’s comment I would not necessarily have thought of him. But I did think, strongly, of Gogol, for its absurd element and for the humour, and now that I have just begun Dostoevsky's The Double , I can also see a certain literary air flowing through these Russian writers.
The other work I thought of, and this time not because of the absurd setting, but because of its metaphysical content and its retake of Plato’s Cave was the much later Saramago’s A Caverna (2000). Both are however very different. Saramago’s has no feeling of enclosure – just the striving for knowledge; his potter Cipriano evokes ideas of ‘The Maker’. While Nabokov’s Cincinnatus, in spite of avidly borrowing books from the prison’s library, has one major obsession that he wants to learn: the date for his execution.
Indeed, one of the pulsating forces of the narration is precisely Cincinnatus’ uncertainty, which made me think in a somewhat ironic manner that as a reader who gradually turns the pages of a book part of the tension cannot be shared with the protagonist as one can feel in one’s fingers that the end is approaching.
On the metaphysical theme I will not detain myself any further; it could fill the pages of several PhD theses. It possibly interests me less than the literary issues that absorbed his Real Life, which I read recently. Reading this during the dreadful pandemic, against which we have little to do other than to imprison ourselves, and in which our known society has become a shadow of its previous presence, I found that I was a less well-disposed reader for these issues than I would have been had I been sitting in a pandemic-free cave. Turning my attention then to the literary, I felt that I was again facing elusive shadows, for apart from the (obvious) literary links pointed at already, in a typical Nabokov manner, there must have been many conscious literary allusions, that regrettably were too dim for me to make some sense out of them.
Nonetheless, in spite of these obstacles, I enjoyed the novel, and most particularly the actual writing. Even if this is a translation, it was transposed into English by Dimitri, Vladimir’s son, and with the father supervising every word choice peeking over the shoulder of his son. Especially I relished the imagery of transparency versus density; as the pervasive presence of doubles (doppelgänger); the portrayal of a Totalitarian state (which again reading it during the pandemic had a greater resonance) .
I shall then continue my gradual exploration of Nabokov’s works. They will be signposts in my reading future.
April 16, 2017
“I suppose the pain of parting will be red and loud.”
Okay not better than Lolita, but I don't know why it isn't Nabokov's second most read novel here. He himself said that while he held the greatest affection for Lolita, it was Invitation to a Beheading that he held in the greatest esteem. Just check out this for an opening sentence:
"In accordance with the law the death sentence was announced to Cincinnatus C. in a whisper."
And there you have in the two quotes the color red, loudness, and secrecy - in short a feel of Soviet Russia. But Nabokov doesn't want you to think of Soviet Russia while reading it. And it is in protogonist, Cincinnatus' crime we discover what it is really about. He was "accused of the most terrible of crimes, gnostical turpitude, so rare and so unutterable that it was necessary to use circumlocutions like “impenetrability,” “opacity,” “occlusion” - the crime, in brief of being someone difficult to know. That could a crime in Soviet Russia too, which wanted the public and private life to be same, which effectively means no privacy, no secrets etc.
But C, is not shallow like others. He is conscious of depths in himself that he himself hasn't penetrated. And so. this crime, that is, the lack of transparency, was to show up sooner or later. He is accused, found guilty, and an execution is ordered. The sentence is welcomed with smiles, masses seem to derive a kind of sadistic pleasure from idea of an execution. The ease and lack of seruousness with which people treat him and his sentence is appaling.
In such a world, C. finds himself, an outsider, looking for escape. Smacks of Kafka's alienated characters? Is but there is no cause-and-effect relationship. Apparently, Nabokov hadn't heard of him when he wrote it.
It is hardly saying anything new that people who are different (hardly a virtue in itself, but not a vice either), who don't have that false virtue of being normal, the golden mean of mediocrity in all qualities are often persecuted by society in all parts of the world - and even where they are not they do always feel persecuted -
"I am here through an error—not in this prison, specifically—but in this whole terrible, striped world; a world which seems not a bad example of amateur craftsmanship, but is in reality calamity, horror, madness, error—and look, the curio slays the tourist, the gigantic carved bear brings its wooden mallet down upon me. "
The images of golden cage and a spider devouring its prey add to this atmosphere where feeling of being unnessarily persecuted gathers strength. And he tries hard, hard to make sense of this world around him
"Involuntarily yielding to the temptation of logical development, involuntarily (be careful, Cincinnatus!) forging into a chain all the things that were quite harmless as long as they remained unlinked, he inspired the meaningless with meaning and the lifeless with life."
But it is useless, all his attempts to make himself understood by these shallow people (or at least, shallow to him) fail:
"I myself picture all this so clearly, but you are not I, and therein lies the irreparable calamity."
since he is surrounded by people who are more puppets than human beings - full of acting and role plays.
“I am surrounded by some sort of wretched specters, not by people. They torment me as can torment only senseless visions, bad dreams, dregs of delirium, the drivel of nightmares and everything that passes down here for real life.”
Yes, there seems to be a superiority complex about him but that is an understandable reaction in someone who hasn't met a like minded soul in his life - it is difficult tobe always understanding when no one understands you. There is nothing for him but to scorn inwardly as his prison mate charges into generally admired eloquence saying cliche things with cliche phrases or his executioner who is a sort of celebrity.
And so, C. turns to the last resort of all those misunderstood souls - writing
"I am chained to this table like a cup to a drinking fountain, and will not rise till I have said what I want. I repeat (gathering new momentum in the rhythm of repetitive incantations), I repeat: there is something I know, there is something I know, there is something … When still, a child, living still in a canary-yellow, large, cold house where they were preparing me and hundreds of other children for secure nonexistence as adult dummies, into which all my coevals turned without effort or pain; already then, in those accursed days, amid rag books and brightly painted school materials and soul-chilling drafts, I knew without knowing, I knew without wonder, I knew as one knows oneself, I knew what it is impossible to know—and, I would say, I knew it even more clearly than I do now. "
but even that doesn't console his soul:
"The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express is, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.”
“...All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.”
BIG SPOILER AHEAD READER DISCRESTION IS ADVISED
The twist in the end suggests that C. was a willing participitant of his own execution - there is something to think about for those who find themselves presecuted by the world for being different.
September 3, 2016
Don't fall into the lazy-readers' trap of thinking that Invitation to a Beheading is just some pastiche of Kafka. This was my misconception for the first 70 pages or so. Nabokov claims not to have read The Trial before writing this work, and I am inclined to believe him, given the limited availability of Kafka's text outside of the German language at that time (Nabokov did not read German). But the close kinship these texts have is very apparent . . .
. . . at first.
It is not too long, however, before Nabokov's softer "touch" becomes apparent. The protagonist, Cincinnatus, is held captive under what may or may not be a trumped-up charge that really is not a charge at all, or at least not one that has a slippery definition, if any definition at all. Some readers excoriate his lack of emotion, his stupidity, but I felt some deep pity for the man. Again, things are not quite as they appear on the surface. A more careful reading reveals a man who is paralyzed by his fear of execution, but who buffers himself from that fear by probing for the answer to the question "when?". This dissociation of emotion is Cincinnatus' central conceit. But what appears on the surface as a lack of emotion is really a manifestation of his subconscious attempts to stifle the fear of death within him. By asking the question "when?" and receiving no answer, his attempts to know when "his time" will come serve to heighten his fears, rather than ameliorate them . . .
. . . at first.
The style throughout is varied. If pinned down to use one word to describe the oeuvre of the work, I would use "dreamlike". In fact, Cincinnatus, who sometimes acts as the directly stream-of-conscious narrator (but only sometimes), himself admits his penchant for dream:
But then I have long since grown accustomed to the thought that what we call dreams is semi-reality, the promise of reality, a foreglimpse and a whiff of it; that is, they contain, in a very vague, diluted state, more genuine reality than our vaunted waking life which, in its turn, is semi-sleep, an evil drowsiness into which penetrate in grotesque disguise the sounds and sights of the real world, flowing beyond the periphery of the mind.
This preference for the dream-state is another defense mechanism used by Cincinnatus to push away the angst brought on by his very real situation. Through this intentional dulling of the waking world's reality, Cincinattus shields himself from the lingering background horror of his sentence . . .
. . . at first.
But one of the more poignant scenes, for me, a heartbreaking scene, wherein Cecilia C., a woman who may or may not be his actual mother, enters the cell to speak with him, heralds the implosion of his shields, not by crushing his hopes. Not initially. But by giving him hope. Hope here, is the enemy, and ultimately, it opens the abyss of disappointment beneath him. As part of their awkward conversation, he asks "What's the point of all this? Don't you know that one of these days, perhaps tomorrow . . ."
He suddenly noticed the expression in Cecilia C.'s eyes - just for an instant, an instant - but it was as if something real, unquestionable (in this world, where everything was subject to question), had passed through, as if a corner of this horrible life had curled up, and there was a glimpse of the lining. In his mother's gaze, Cincinnatus suddenly saw that ultimate, secure, all-explaining and from-all-protecting spark that he knew how to discern in himself also. What was this spark so piercingly expressing now? It does not mater what - call it horror, or pity . . . but rather let us say this: the spark proclaimed such a tumult of truth that Cincinnatus's soul could not help leaping for joy. The instant flashed and was gone. Cecilia C. got up, making an incredible little gesture, namely, holding her hands apart with index fingers extended, as if indicating size - the length, say, of a babe . . . Then she immediately began fussing, picking up from the floor her plump black bag, adjusting the lining of her pocket.
"There now," she said, in her former prattling tone, "I've stayed a while and now I'll be going. Eat my candy. I've overstayed. I'll be going, it's time."
The solemnity of this scene contrasts sharply with the tone of bureaucratic silliness that pervades the actions of the government officials throughout. There are too many such instances to mention here. Suffice it to say that the utter ridiculousness of these antagonists are somewhat reminiscent of Toole's Confederacy of Dunces . This is yet more evidence of Nabokov's ability to write in several "voices," startlingly different, yet of a piece. At one point, my reading notes comment on Chapter 8: "Beautiful angst, like Beckett and Calvino conspiring on a stream of consciousness riff of awe with baroque frills" - a contrast to the whiffs of Ubu Roi that I occasionally smelled while reading. Which just goes to show Nabokov's skill in switching from tone to tone in the same novel while maintaining a feeling of wholeness. The man can WRITE! Often, though, I found myself wishing that David Lynch might do the world a favor and offer up a cinematic version of Invitation to a Beheading. He would be one of the few directors who could actually pull it off. Lynch's ability to portray what I will call "timeslips" on the big screen would be needed and tested. For example, imagine who you would film the following, a scene wherein Cincinnatus is escorted to a "farewell visit" with the city officials:
This nocturnal promenade which had promised to be so rich with sad, carefree, singing, murmuring impressions - for what is a recollection, if not the soul of an impression? - proved in reality to be vague and insignificant and flashed by so quickly as happens only amid very familiar surroundings, in the dark, when the varicolored fractions of day are replaced by the integers of night.
Many have called this novel a work of existentialism. And this is not incorrect. However, it is not a nihilistic work. What starts out floundering in captivity and darkness, with an increasing fear of inevitable doom billowing up into storm clouds in the background, resolves (a word you will rarely hear being used to describe a work of existentialist literature) into a manifesto of self-sufficiency ("By myself," becomes Cincinnatus's refrain) and a profound statement on grasping one's own destiny, embracing it, and stepping off into the unknown, with confidence and surety of purpose, with full freedom of being one's self . . .
. . . at last.
. . . at first.
It is not too long, however, before Nabokov's softer "touch" becomes apparent. The protagonist, Cincinnatus, is held captive under what may or may not be a trumped-up charge that really is not a charge at all, or at least not one that has a slippery definition, if any definition at all. Some readers excoriate his lack of emotion, his stupidity, but I felt some deep pity for the man. Again, things are not quite as they appear on the surface. A more careful reading reveals a man who is paralyzed by his fear of execution, but who buffers himself from that fear by probing for the answer to the question "when?". This dissociation of emotion is Cincinnatus' central conceit. But what appears on the surface as a lack of emotion is really a manifestation of his subconscious attempts to stifle the fear of death within him. By asking the question "when?" and receiving no answer, his attempts to know when "his time" will come serve to heighten his fears, rather than ameliorate them . . .
. . . at first.
The style throughout is varied. If pinned down to use one word to describe the oeuvre of the work, I would use "dreamlike". In fact, Cincinnatus, who sometimes acts as the directly stream-of-conscious narrator (but only sometimes), himself admits his penchant for dream:
But then I have long since grown accustomed to the thought that what we call dreams is semi-reality, the promise of reality, a foreglimpse and a whiff of it; that is, they contain, in a very vague, diluted state, more genuine reality than our vaunted waking life which, in its turn, is semi-sleep, an evil drowsiness into which penetrate in grotesque disguise the sounds and sights of the real world, flowing beyond the periphery of the mind.
This preference for the dream-state is another defense mechanism used by Cincinnatus to push away the angst brought on by his very real situation. Through this intentional dulling of the waking world's reality, Cincinattus shields himself from the lingering background horror of his sentence . . .
. . . at first.
But one of the more poignant scenes, for me, a heartbreaking scene, wherein Cecilia C., a woman who may or may not be his actual mother, enters the cell to speak with him, heralds the implosion of his shields, not by crushing his hopes. Not initially. But by giving him hope. Hope here, is the enemy, and ultimately, it opens the abyss of disappointment beneath him. As part of their awkward conversation, he asks "What's the point of all this? Don't you know that one of these days, perhaps tomorrow . . ."
He suddenly noticed the expression in Cecilia C.'s eyes - just for an instant, an instant - but it was as if something real, unquestionable (in this world, where everything was subject to question), had passed through, as if a corner of this horrible life had curled up, and there was a glimpse of the lining. In his mother's gaze, Cincinnatus suddenly saw that ultimate, secure, all-explaining and from-all-protecting spark that he knew how to discern in himself also. What was this spark so piercingly expressing now? It does not mater what - call it horror, or pity . . . but rather let us say this: the spark proclaimed such a tumult of truth that Cincinnatus's soul could not help leaping for joy. The instant flashed and was gone. Cecilia C. got up, making an incredible little gesture, namely, holding her hands apart with index fingers extended, as if indicating size - the length, say, of a babe . . . Then she immediately began fussing, picking up from the floor her plump black bag, adjusting the lining of her pocket.
"There now," she said, in her former prattling tone, "I've stayed a while and now I'll be going. Eat my candy. I've overstayed. I'll be going, it's time."
The solemnity of this scene contrasts sharply with the tone of bureaucratic silliness that pervades the actions of the government officials throughout. There are too many such instances to mention here. Suffice it to say that the utter ridiculousness of these antagonists are somewhat reminiscent of Toole's Confederacy of Dunces . This is yet more evidence of Nabokov's ability to write in several "voices," startlingly different, yet of a piece. At one point, my reading notes comment on Chapter 8: "Beautiful angst, like Beckett and Calvino conspiring on a stream of consciousness riff of awe with baroque frills" - a contrast to the whiffs of Ubu Roi that I occasionally smelled while reading. Which just goes to show Nabokov's skill in switching from tone to tone in the same novel while maintaining a feeling of wholeness. The man can WRITE! Often, though, I found myself wishing that David Lynch might do the world a favor and offer up a cinematic version of Invitation to a Beheading. He would be one of the few directors who could actually pull it off. Lynch's ability to portray what I will call "timeslips" on the big screen would be needed and tested. For example, imagine who you would film the following, a scene wherein Cincinnatus is escorted to a "farewell visit" with the city officials:
This nocturnal promenade which had promised to be so rich with sad, carefree, singing, murmuring impressions - for what is a recollection, if not the soul of an impression? - proved in reality to be vague and insignificant and flashed by so quickly as happens only amid very familiar surroundings, in the dark, when the varicolored fractions of day are replaced by the integers of night.
Many have called this novel a work of existentialism. And this is not incorrect. However, it is not a nihilistic work. What starts out floundering in captivity and darkness, with an increasing fear of inevitable doom billowing up into storm clouds in the background, resolves (a word you will rarely hear being used to describe a work of existentialist literature) into a manifesto of self-sufficiency ("By myself," becomes Cincinnatus's refrain) and a profound statement on grasping one's own destiny, embracing it, and stepping off into the unknown, with confidence and surety of purpose, with full freedom of being one's self . . .
. . . at last.
December 15, 2024
The difference between reading everything from a lambda literary return and this book is the same as that between a bike ride on a cycle path and an ascent in the high mountains—the almost painful feeling of lacking oxygen and the intoxicating feeling of breathing in the content of great purity. Invitation to a Beheading depicts the last moments of a condemned man and his captivity seen from his mental space. It is an extraordinary story where different levels of reality coexist, with so many fantastical projections of the captive embedded in episodes of primary truth. That's an impressive reflection on the human condition, that of the locked-up man grappling with bureaucracy in what is fundamentally grotesque and absurd, that of the man who knows his imminent death, vertiginous reflection when the story takes the nerve to turn into a farce to do a masterful fate to all totalitarian abjections.
March 15, 2012
I have played the piano since I was three years old. Thanks to the encouragement of my family and long hours of practice, I have been lucky enough to play large functions, concerts, and sold-out rock shows at venues I grew up dreaming of playing at. I have worked with truly great musicians, and been a part of many professional recordings. It's fostered a life-long love and appreciation for music, and I feel blessed to have had the experiences I've had.
But I have never written a song in my entire life.
I grew up loving to write, spending hours as a child composing ridiculous sports and science-fiction stories. My nose is always in a book, and my parents encouraged me to read anything I could get my hands on. I enjoy writing so much that I went to college for English and Journalism, reporting for newspapers and enjoying poetry and creative writing courses. My professional experience consists entirely of jobs requiring me to create written content, and hopefully it always will. I've wanted to write a novel since I was 10.
But I have not written one piece of creative original material since I graduated six years ago.
It's not that I haven't tried. One night not too long ago I locked myself in a piano studio for hours, with nothing but 88 keys, a sheet of blank paper and a pencil. Nothing came out of it but things that sounded like songs already written. I've attempted to write song lyrics, blog posts, short stories - but nothing that has avoided the trash can or the delete button.
I can't do it. I don't know why. It doesn't seem fair. I love the creative arts so much, and have practiced them almost all my life, but I have nothing to show for it. I'm extremely proud of the collaborative things I have done, but I just have this continually growing worry that I'll never be able to create something myself. I don't know how many New Years resolutions have been along the lines of "THIS year I'll record some songs" or "THIS year I'll try and publish something." Years continue to pass.
After some thought, I realize that I'm my own worst enemy. I don't even want to start something unless it's an idea so brilliant, a style so original, a thought so unheard of, that it can be compared to nothing; that it will be something that totally and completely expresses the uniqueness that I (not-so-humbly, I admit) think I have inside myself. So whenever any kind of inspiration hits, it's almost immediately dismissed as a parody, a copy, inferior. It's made me almost stop trying altogether.
And so years continue to pass.
And then I read Invitation to a Beheading. Cincinnatus C. is arrested and sentenced to death for not fitting in, for failing to become a part of society. Cincinnatus, who wants to express himself so badly, but can't do it because no one will tell him how much time he has left, and he doesn't want to start unless he knows there is time to express himself properly. And then I read chapter 9:
". . . and in the end the logical thing would be to give up and I would give up if I were laboring for a reader today, but as there is in the world not a single human who can speak my language; or, more simply, not a single human who can speak; or, even more simply, not a single human; I must think only of myself, of that force which urges me to express myself. I repeat: there is something I know, there is something I know, there is something..."
And I cried on the bus.
While the themes of this novel aren't exactly in line with my own writer's block, I couldn't help but get caught up in the desperation of Cincinnatus, as the world around him got crazier and crazier, and his hopes were continually dashed until it was almost the end of him.
Almost the end.
And hopefully, like Cincinnatus, I can discover that something that I know.
But I have never written a song in my entire life.
I grew up loving to write, spending hours as a child composing ridiculous sports and science-fiction stories. My nose is always in a book, and my parents encouraged me to read anything I could get my hands on. I enjoy writing so much that I went to college for English and Journalism, reporting for newspapers and enjoying poetry and creative writing courses. My professional experience consists entirely of jobs requiring me to create written content, and hopefully it always will. I've wanted to write a novel since I was 10.
But I have not written one piece of creative original material since I graduated six years ago.
It's not that I haven't tried. One night not too long ago I locked myself in a piano studio for hours, with nothing but 88 keys, a sheet of blank paper and a pencil. Nothing came out of it but things that sounded like songs already written. I've attempted to write song lyrics, blog posts, short stories - but nothing that has avoided the trash can or the delete button.
I can't do it. I don't know why. It doesn't seem fair. I love the creative arts so much, and have practiced them almost all my life, but I have nothing to show for it. I'm extremely proud of the collaborative things I have done, but I just have this continually growing worry that I'll never be able to create something myself. I don't know how many New Years resolutions have been along the lines of "THIS year I'll record some songs" or "THIS year I'll try and publish something." Years continue to pass.
After some thought, I realize that I'm my own worst enemy. I don't even want to start something unless it's an idea so brilliant, a style so original, a thought so unheard of, that it can be compared to nothing; that it will be something that totally and completely expresses the uniqueness that I (not-so-humbly, I admit) think I have inside myself. So whenever any kind of inspiration hits, it's almost immediately dismissed as a parody, a copy, inferior. It's made me almost stop trying altogether.
And so years continue to pass.
And then I read Invitation to a Beheading. Cincinnatus C. is arrested and sentenced to death for not fitting in, for failing to become a part of society. Cincinnatus, who wants to express himself so badly, but can't do it because no one will tell him how much time he has left, and he doesn't want to start unless he knows there is time to express himself properly. And then I read chapter 9:
". . . and in the end the logical thing would be to give up and I would give up if I were laboring for a reader today, but as there is in the world not a single human who can speak my language; or, more simply, not a single human who can speak; or, even more simply, not a single human; I must think only of myself, of that force which urges me to express myself. I repeat: there is something I know, there is something I know, there is something..."
And I cried on the bus.
While the themes of this novel aren't exactly in line with my own writer's block, I couldn't help but get caught up in the desperation of Cincinnatus, as the world around him got crazier and crazier, and his hopes were continually dashed until it was almost the end of him.
Almost the end.
And hopefully, like Cincinnatus, I can discover that something that I know.
September 9, 2023
The Light at the End of the Cave
It is not difficult to see why Nabokov was accused of plagiarism when Invitation to a Beheading was first published. At a first view and a very shallow first reading (or, let’s not be mean and say, in Eco's terms, at a first level reading) it is indeed weirdly similar to The Trial, either in the plot construction, the main character attitude and the theme.
However there are so many differences that save the book from being somehow a sequel of Kafka’s novel and put it on the general shelf of masterpieces with common themes – alienation and absurd of the existence that the author’s statement that he was not familiar with Kafka’s works at the time rings definitely true.
On the one hand, whereas K.’s drama is generated by an accusation he is informed of but never told what it is, Cincinnatus knows very well what crime he was accused of: “the gnostic turpitude” of being opaque in a transparent world, real in a dream, solid among shades – that is, different:
I am here through an error – not in this prison specifically – but in this whole, terrible, striped world; a world which seems not a bad example of amateur craftsmanship, but is in reality calamity, horror, madness, error – and look, the curio slays the tourist, the gigantic carved bear brings its wooden mallet down upon me.
Therefore, while K. is singularized only by his unknown crime, Cincinnatus is unique from the beginning; a stranger among strangers and this is why he will stand tall when the world crumbles around him whereas K. dies “like a dog”, killed by his own kin.
On the other hand, while The Trial satirizes bureaucracy and was seen as a grim premonition of the Holocaust, Invitation to a Beheading even though can be read as a satire against totalitarianism is more than that: it is a trip towards knowledge, for Cincinnatus grows tired of watching the shadows on the walls, and longs to discover who and what generated them:
It exists, my dream world, it must exist since sure there must be an original of the clumsy copy.
The book describes mainly the struggle within the hero (by using the motive of the Romantic double), between the survival instinct that pushes him to act normal, to integrate, to mimic the others in order to forever remain chained in the apparent world and the call for knowledge that lures him out of the cage:
Involuntarily yielding to the temptation of logical development, involuntarily (be careful, Cincinnatus!) forging into a chain all the things that were quite harmless as long as they remained unlinked, he inspired the meaningless with meaning and the lifeless with life.
A world where even “Socrates must decrease”, maybe not real but not less oppressive, since everyone is a dummy, since the whole life is painted on a cardboard, a world where the appearance is taken for essence and the shadows claim to be the solid reality denying altogether any universe outside the cave. A world of imitations, whose theatrical falsity is depicted in that specific, unmistakable Russian way, with big gestures and highfalutin words and pitiful meaningless, a world that collapses into itself the very minute the hero leaves it, in a final image strangely distressing and triumphant at the same time:
Everything was coming apart. Everything was falling. A spinning wind was picking up and whirling: dust, rags, chips of painted wood, bits of gilded plaster, pasteboard bricks, posters; an arid gloom fleeted; and amidst the dust, and the falling things, and the flapping scenery, Cincinnatus made his way in that direction where, to judge by the voices, stood beings akin to him.
Is literature considered, Plato-style, a second-hand reality, an imitation of imitation? Is Cincinnatus the artist who struggles to give life to his work only to be imprisoned and almost destructed by it? Or, on the contrary, is art the only reality and life a mere imitation the hero frees himself of?
So many challenging questions, but at the end of the day who cares, for an answer, anyway? As long as masterpieces like this one will continue to emerge…
December 8, 2012
Fifty pages in, I feel like I've given this a good shake and I can move on. You have to care about something when you read a book: the story, a character, maybe even the technique. Something, at any rate. Nothing comes to mind for this one. While Nabokov stated in an interview that of all his novels he held the greatest affection for Lolita, it was Invitation to a Beheading that he held in the greatest esteem, he said at the same time:
What a wanker.
I know I'm in the wild here, not kowtowing to the idea of Nabokov, but the time will come where he is reassessed and found wanting. As far as I can see, he is too clever by half. One needs more than intellect to make writing work, to make it other than banal. He's not only a wanker, but a darn smug one and one wonders why. It isn't enough to pepper everything you write with corny sexual metaphor. Speaking of which, I feel like, as a consequence of reading the first pages of this, my dorsal hairs couldn't get it up with a dose of viagra now.
Tim Winton, get me over this unhappy affair. Cloudstreet is my recovery play.
My advice to a budding literary critic would be as follows. Learn to distinguish banality. Remember that mediocrity thrives on "ideas." Beware of the modish message. Ask yourself if the symbol you have detected is not your own footprint. Ignore allegories. By all means place the "how" above the "what" but do not let it be confused with the "so what." Rely on the sudden erection of your small dorsal hairs. Do not drag in Freud at this point. All the rest depends on personal talent.
What a wanker.
I know I'm in the wild here, not kowtowing to the idea of Nabokov, but the time will come where he is reassessed and found wanting. As far as I can see, he is too clever by half. One needs more than intellect to make writing work, to make it other than banal. He's not only a wanker, but a darn smug one and one wonders why. It isn't enough to pepper everything you write with corny sexual metaphor. Speaking of which, I feel like, as a consequence of reading the first pages of this, my dorsal hairs couldn't get it up with a dose of viagra now.
Tim Winton, get me over this unhappy affair. Cloudstreet is my recovery play.
April 19, 2024
روزگاری به مانند سینسیناتوس، پشت میز مینشستم و دست به قلم میشدم. کلمات پشت هم ردیف میشدند و خوانندهای هم در کار نبود. حتی از دریچهای، کسی سرک نمیکشید که این زندانی مرده است یا زنده. در آن فضای غمناک، سطرها چون سیل خون بر برگه جاری میشدند. باران چشمهایم هم از پس شستنشان برنمیآمد.
به در زل میزدم چون صدای قدمهایی به گوش میرسید، اما هیچ ملاقاتیای در کار نبود. خود بودم و بس. شاید این کفایت میکرد، اما از این قرار نبود. به ازای کسانی که دوست نمیداشتم، کسانی که به دیدارم نمیآمدند، کسانی که برای نجاتم کاری نمیکردند خود را تکه تکه کردم.
اینطور شد که دستهایم برگ گل را نوازش میکردند. پاهایم به مکانهای خواستنی کشیده میشدند. گیسوانم با نسیم به رقص درمیآمدند و لذت رهاییای توصیفناپذیر را میچشیدند. دیگر چشمهایم در محاصره غم نبود، بلکه کمی هم شادی را در بغل میگرفت. و قلبم، برای زیستن میتپید.
اما نگهبان سر میزد و رنگها پر میکشید. رنگ خاکستری حکمفرما میشد و روزشماری را برای اتمام، از سر میگرفتم. امیدی حتی واهی هم در کار نبود و با استقبال به سوی اعدام میشتافتم.
و بالاخره، طناب به دور گردنم پیچید. با آسودگی خاطر از پایان، در تمنای لمس مرگ بودم. اما گرهاش در آخرین لحظه باز شد و آن گاه، به سرتاپایم پیچید.
من را از بند به جاهایی کشاند که نزیستهام. به رنگهایی که ندیدهام. به آدمهایی که دوستدارم بودند. به صداهایی که روحنواز بودند و به دنیایی که میتوانست جور دیگری باشد.
شقایقها به هم برگشتند و واحد شدند. دیگر هر کدامشان در جایجای این خاک، پرسه نمیزدند. در تنم میگنجیدند. چشم چرخاندم و به دنبال طناب بودم، اما دیگر رفته بود. میخواست که فقط من را به من برگرداند.
آن گاه که بازگشتم، خوانندهای هم پدیدار شد. ملاقاتیای هم آمد و زندگی در پس سلول، ساکن نماند. دیگر وقت به جریان آمدن بود و من، اعدامیای بیش نبودم. گرهای که به بند بند وجودم زدی، من را پایبند کرد.
همخوانی این کتاب و همنشینی با انسانهای بیبدیل، از تجارب خاطرهانگیز امسالم به شمار میرفت. شادمانم که به رضایت دلخواه از این برگزاریها رسیدم. تنها نصیحت مرتبط با کتاب، نخواندن این ترجمه است و بس. امیدوارم دربند نباشید.
به در زل میزدم چون صدای قدمهایی به گوش میرسید، اما هیچ ملاقاتیای در کار نبود. خود بودم و بس. شاید این کفایت میکرد، اما از این قرار نبود. به ازای کسانی که دوست نمیداشتم، کسانی که به دیدارم نمیآمدند، کسانی که برای نجاتم کاری نمیکردند خود را تکه تکه کردم.
اینطور شد که دستهایم برگ گل را نوازش میکردند. پاهایم به مکانهای خواستنی کشیده میشدند. گیسوانم با نسیم به رقص درمیآمدند و لذت رهاییای توصیفناپذیر را میچشیدند. دیگر چشمهایم در محاصره غم نبود، بلکه کمی هم شادی را در بغل میگرفت. و قلبم، برای زیستن میتپید.
اما نگهبان سر میزد و رنگها پر میکشید. رنگ خاکستری حکمفرما میشد و روزشماری را برای اتمام، از سر میگرفتم. امیدی حتی واهی هم در کار نبود و با استقبال به سوی اعدام میشتافتم.
و بالاخره، طناب به دور گردنم پیچید. با آسودگی خاطر از پایان، در تمنای لمس مرگ بودم. اما گرهاش در آخرین لحظه باز شد و آن گاه، به سرتاپایم پیچید.
من را از بند به جاهایی کشاند که نزیستهام. به رنگهایی که ندیدهام. به آدمهایی که دوستدارم بودند. به صداهایی که روحنواز بودند و به دنیایی که میتوانست جور دیگری باشد.
شقایقها به هم برگشتند و واحد شدند. دیگر هر کدامشان در جایجای این خاک، پرسه نمیزدند. در تنم میگنجیدند. چشم چرخاندم و به دنبال طناب بودم، اما دیگر رفته بود. میخواست که فقط من را به من برگرداند.
آن گاه که بازگشتم، خوانندهای هم پدیدار شد. ملاقاتیای هم آمد و زندگی در پس سلول، ساکن نماند. دیگر وقت به جریان آمدن بود و من، اعدامیای بیش نبودم. گرهای که به بند بند وجودم زدی، من را پایبند کرد.
همخوانی این کتاب و همنشینی با انسانهای بیبدیل، از تجارب خاطرهانگیز امسالم به شمار میرفت. شادمانم که به رضایت دلخواه از این برگزاریها رسیدم. تنها نصیحت مرتبط با کتاب، نخواندن این ترجمه است و بس. امیدوارم دربند نباشید.
July 12, 2018
" Hapishane sakinlerinin görkemli kır manzaraları, dostlarla gezintiler, aile sofraları ve cinsel ilişki gibi içerikleri tutukluluk durumu ve statüsüyle bağdaşmayan gece düşleri görmeleri durumunda bunları anında bastırmaları..."
Nabokov'un Rusça yazdığı kitaplardan biri olan İnfaza Çağrı düş kurmanın dahi kural ve mevzuat ile çevrelendiği bir hapishanede idamı bekleyen Cincinnatus'un hikayesi. Yazıldıktan çok sonra basılma imkanı bulan bu kitap az başını ağrıtmamış Nabokov'un. Edebi çevrelerce Kafka'nın Şato ve Dava'sı ile benzerliği bir intihal söylentisi çıkarmış. Ancak ben böyle bir intihali okurken hissetmedim ki Kafka'nın özellikle Dava'sından sonra bürokratik mekanizmaların ezdiği, hiçleştirip nesneleştirdiği her hikayede, filmde " Kafkaesk" sözünü duyuyoruz zaten.
Son olarak bir temenni ile bitireyim, umarım Lolita yerine İnfaza Çağrıyla hatırlanırsınız bir yüz yıl sonra pek saygıdeğer Nabokov efendi.
Nabokov'un Rusça yazdığı kitaplardan biri olan İnfaza Çağrı düş kurmanın dahi kural ve mevzuat ile çevrelendiği bir hapishanede idamı bekleyen Cincinnatus'un hikayesi. Yazıldıktan çok sonra basılma imkanı bulan bu kitap az başını ağrıtmamış Nabokov'un. Edebi çevrelerce Kafka'nın Şato ve Dava'sı ile benzerliği bir intihal söylentisi çıkarmış. Ancak ben böyle bir intihali okurken hissetmedim ki Kafka'nın özellikle Dava'sından sonra bürokratik mekanizmaların ezdiği, hiçleştirip nesneleştirdiği her hikayede, filmde " Kafkaesk" sözünü duyuyoruz zaten.
Son olarak bir temenni ile bitireyim, umarım Lolita yerine İnfaza Çağrıyla hatırlanırsınız bir yüz yıl sonra pek saygıdeğer Nabokov efendi.
December 26, 2009
The writing is pretty. Not the right word but I'm too lazy to use the thesaurus. Effective? It was simple but I found my imagination engaged. There was a passage (one of the many) where Cincinnatus was describing his cell, and as his mind wandered my wandered also, not from lack of interest or boredom. I read it over maybe five times before I could bring myself to move on.
This book made me scratch the right side of my head, the underdeveloped nearly concave side, in confusion. My readings usually (besides the floof) have direct practical application, functionality, numbers...none of which are required when it comes to Ahrt.* It reminds me of a glass vase display I saw a long time ago, where the curves of the vases were visible but they had been pulled apart while still molten so that the halves were joined by drooping strands; I'd thought of Venus flytraps with salivary strands but the Ahrtist’s blurb spoke of representing urban deterioration and the torturous agony of our separation from nature...huh? It also reminds me of this ceramic display of heads with phallic noses (ceramic Ahrtists love phalluses) that appeared to be crudely and haphazardly thrown together; but a closer inspection showed careful detailing and my initial reaction of "my four year old could make that!" (if I’d had a four year old) changed into "that's pretty cool" (the Ahrtist's blurb spoke of childhood memories of faces...Ahrtists....) Literature is like that glass and ceramic to me, where I often try to take too literal an interpretation and miss its worth.
Since I can't block out the over-literal tendency, I have two thoughts on what this story means. "Means." 1) One heck of a description of writer's block. Not an original thought since it fell out of C's difficulty with writing a letter. The cell and interchangeable jailers represent publishers who pressure for a cookie-cutter action bestseller, the unfaithful wife is the bestseller plot who gives herself to others while C dawdles (Dan Brown?), the crime is wanting to write Ahrt. Eh? 2) A sinister allegory on social conformity. Again, not original since the book kept referring to his difference from others, an "opaqueness."
I do think I'm missing the point. The significance of the mother's visit and Emmie? The oak novel and the draft in the cell becoming a leafy breeze with an acorn dropping out of nowhere? The references to things being off-center like the peonies being placed off-center on the table before the first interview, the light off-center in the ceiling, the scaffold off-center in the plaza?
All I know is that I don't understand Ahrt, I need the Ahrtist to explain, and sometimes the Ahrtist has no explanation.
Someone give me a math problem, this dunce cap is squeezing the left side of my head and I'd like to take it off.
*Copied from karen's shelf name.
This book made me scratch the right side of my head, the underdeveloped nearly concave side, in confusion. My readings usually (besides the floof) have direct practical application, functionality, numbers...none of which are required when it comes to Ahrt.* It reminds me of a glass vase display I saw a long time ago, where the curves of the vases were visible but they had been pulled apart while still molten so that the halves were joined by drooping strands; I'd thought of Venus flytraps with salivary strands but the Ahrtist’s blurb spoke of representing urban deterioration and the torturous agony of our separation from nature...huh? It also reminds me of this ceramic display of heads with phallic noses (ceramic Ahrtists love phalluses) that appeared to be crudely and haphazardly thrown together; but a closer inspection showed careful detailing and my initial reaction of "my four year old could make that!" (if I’d had a four year old) changed into "that's pretty cool" (the Ahrtist's blurb spoke of childhood memories of faces...Ahrtists....) Literature is like that glass and ceramic to me, where I often try to take too literal an interpretation and miss its worth.
Since I can't block out the over-literal tendency, I have two thoughts on what this story means. "Means." 1) One heck of a description of writer's block. Not an original thought since it fell out of C's difficulty with writing a letter. The cell and interchangeable jailers represent publishers who pressure for a cookie-cutter action bestseller, the unfaithful wife is the bestseller plot who gives herself to others while C dawdles (Dan Brown?), the crime is wanting to write Ahrt. Eh? 2) A sinister allegory on social conformity. Again, not original since the book kept referring to his difference from others, an "opaqueness."
I do think I'm missing the point. The significance of the mother's visit and Emmie? The oak novel and the draft in the cell becoming a leafy breeze with an acorn dropping out of nowhere? The references to things being off-center like the peonies being placed off-center on the table before the first interview, the light off-center in the ceiling, the scaffold off-center in the plaza?
All I know is that I don't understand Ahrt, I need the Ahrtist to explain, and sometimes the Ahrtist has no explanation.
Someone give me a math problem, this dunce cap is squeezing the left side of my head and I'd like to take it off.
*Copied from karen's shelf name.
March 12, 2018
I find it difficult to believe Nabokov when in the preface to Invitation to a Beheading he insists that he had no knowledge of Kafka when he wrote this book. This novel echoes The Trial in its plot and themes, not to mention the similarity in the protagonists names. Even the opening sentence appears to be a kind of homage; compare:
Come on, Vladimir, who are you trying to fool? But though these similarities do invite comparison, I can understand his frustration at the facile, reductionist use of the “Kafkaesque” label, as simply equating the two novels would be a mistake: Invitation to a Beheading is a very different novel to The Trial. It is a better novel, in my opinion (though I am a noted detractor of Kafka’s). To begin with, Nabokov’s prose is much more enjoyable to read, and the surreal and absurd elements are more imaginative, and more entertaining. Above all, Invitation to a Beheading continues to develop its ideas as it progresses, rather than simply locking itself and the reader in a cycle of repeated frustration for one hundred and fifty pages. Nabokov’s novel also deals heavily with frustration, but his meaning and implication is more broad than Kafka’s. Invitation to a Beheading is not about the restrictions imposed by the state, but those which we internalise and accept within our own lives. We are all in fact sentenced to live this absurd life, awaiting our own execution, and it is up to us to recognise our jailers.
I’m gradually coming back around to Nabokov, after the lingering disappointment of Bend Sinister, which I read almost two years ago. But in terms of quality, Invitation to a Beheading is certainly closer to Pnin and Pale Fire, than it is to that book. One of his best, I think.
"Someone must have been spreading slander about Josef K., for one morning he was arrested, though he had done nothing wrong."
- Kafka, The Trial.
"In accordance with the law the death sentence was announced to Cincinnatus C. in a whisper."
- Nabokov, Invitation to a Beheading
Come on, Vladimir, who are you trying to fool? But though these similarities do invite comparison, I can understand his frustration at the facile, reductionist use of the “Kafkaesque” label, as simply equating the two novels would be a mistake: Invitation to a Beheading is a very different novel to The Trial. It is a better novel, in my opinion (though I am a noted detractor of Kafka’s). To begin with, Nabokov’s prose is much more enjoyable to read, and the surreal and absurd elements are more imaginative, and more entertaining. Above all, Invitation to a Beheading continues to develop its ideas as it progresses, rather than simply locking itself and the reader in a cycle of repeated frustration for one hundred and fifty pages. Nabokov’s novel also deals heavily with frustration, but his meaning and implication is more broad than Kafka’s. Invitation to a Beheading is not about the restrictions imposed by the state, but those which we internalise and accept within our own lives. We are all in fact sentenced to live this absurd life, awaiting our own execution, and it is up to us to recognise our jailers.
I’m gradually coming back around to Nabokov, after the lingering disappointment of Bend Sinister, which I read almost two years ago. But in terms of quality, Invitation to a Beheading is certainly closer to Pnin and Pale Fire, than it is to that book. One of his best, I think.
March 15, 2022
“Measure me while I live - after it will be too late.”
Despite Vladimir Nabokov's protests, Invitation to a Beheading, with its protagonist awaiting execution for an unknown crime at an uncertain date, feels very Kafkaesque. I liked the beginning of this novel as well as a perhaps unexpected ending, but Invitation to a Beheading didn't have the lyrical virtuosity or the punch of other Nabokov novels. There were some interesting perspectives and humor, but for me, it wasn't enough to really make this memorable. 3.25 stars
...
Despite Vladimir Nabokov's protests, Invitation to a Beheading, with its protagonist awaiting execution for an unknown crime at an uncertain date, feels very Kafkaesque. I liked the beginning of this novel as well as a perhaps unexpected ending, but Invitation to a Beheading didn't have the lyrical virtuosity or the punch of other Nabokov novels. There were some interesting perspectives and humor, but for me, it wasn't enough to really make this memorable. 3.25 stars
...
February 22, 2016
“...All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Invitation to a Beheading
Nabokov's violin playing in the void of a totalitarian nightmare. Invitation to a Beheading belongs among those 20th Century novels by Orwell, Huxley, Kafka and Koestler that explore the individual revolting against an absurd totalitarianism. Cincinnatus C is an opaque prisoner being punished by a translucent society for his gnostical turpitude. With a Gogol-like playfulness and a Kafkaesque absurdity and a linqusitic inventiveness that belongs solely to Nabokov, 'Invitation to a Beheading' explores the many ways the state (and society) acts to destroy or force conformity on those whose vision is different. Beware those who transgress social norms, your days are both numbered ... and infinite.
― Vladimir Nabokov, Invitation to a Beheading
Nabokov's violin playing in the void of a totalitarian nightmare. Invitation to a Beheading belongs among those 20th Century novels by Orwell, Huxley, Kafka and Koestler that explore the individual revolting against an absurd totalitarianism. Cincinnatus C is an opaque prisoner being punished by a translucent society for his gnostical turpitude. With a Gogol-like playfulness and a Kafkaesque absurdity and a linqusitic inventiveness that belongs solely to Nabokov, 'Invitation to a Beheading' explores the many ways the state (and society) acts to destroy or force conformity on those whose vision is different. Beware those who transgress social norms, your days are both numbered ... and infinite.
April 12, 2024
One vs. All
سینسیناتوس، زندانی در سلولش روزها رو طوری میگذرونه که معلوم نیست آیا فردا هم نور آفتاب رو احساس میکنه یا نه؟!
حکم اعدام صادر شده و شکی در اجرای اون نیست ولی به تنها درخواستش مبنی بر اعلام روز اجرای حکم اندک اهمیتی داده نمیشه.
اون هیچ شباهت و وجه مشترکی با اطرافیانش نداره، شعله های عواطف و احساسات درونش مرتب زبانه میکشه و این روزهای آخر از کژ و کاستی های روزگار به تنها ریسمان قابل دسترس متوسل میشه «نوشتن»، حالا که طرد شده و تنهاست چارهای جز همزبانی با قلم و کاغذ و گاهی حتی خط خطی روی دیوار سلول براش باقی نمونده. حالا که بطور حقیقی محصور شده و شبها اجازهی خواب دیدن هم نداره، شاید با جهان مجازی و خودساخته هم صحبتی پیدا کنه که اندک ذرهای حس درک شدن بهش بده.
دومین تجربهی همراهی با ناباکوف حداقل به اندازه دفاع لوژین برای من هیجان انگیز نبود. فارغ از اینکه این کتاب برخلاف حجم کمی که داره اصلا به راحتی قابل مطالعه نیست اما اشاره به جزئیات ریز و نماد های متعدد و گاهی اوقات کش اومدن بیش از حد توصیفات بدون کارکرد مشخص در پیشبرد داستان دعوت به مراسم گردن زنی رو برای من به یک کتاب ملال آور تبدیل کرد. البته که چشمپوشی از نکات مثبت و نثر شگفت انگیز ناباکوف بی انصافی در حق نویسنده و اثر هست.
سینسیناتوس جز شخصیت های ماندگار در خاطرم ثبت شد. درختی که از سرنوشت راه گریزی نداره، سوختن.
بیستوچهار فروردین صفرسه
سینسیناتوس، زندانی در سلولش روزها رو طوری میگذرونه که معلوم نیست آیا فردا هم نور آفتاب رو احساس میکنه یا نه؟!
حکم اعدام صادر شده و شکی در اجرای اون نیست ولی به تنها درخواستش مبنی بر اعلام روز اجرای حکم اندک اهمیتی داده نمیشه.
اون هیچ شباهت و وجه مشترکی با اطرافیانش نداره، شعله های عواطف و احساسات درونش مرتب زبانه میکشه و این روزهای آخر از کژ و کاستی های روزگار به تنها ریسمان قابل دسترس متوسل میشه «نوشتن»، حالا که طرد شده و تنهاست چارهای جز همزبانی با قلم و کاغذ و گاهی حتی خط خطی روی دیوار سلول براش باقی نمونده. حالا که بطور حقیقی محصور شده و شبها اجازهی خواب دیدن هم نداره، شاید با جهان مجازی و خودساخته هم صحبتی پیدا کنه که اندک ذرهای حس درک شدن بهش بده.
دومین تجربهی همراهی با ناباکوف حداقل به اندازه دفاع لوژین برای من هیجان انگیز نبود. فارغ از اینکه این کتاب برخلاف حجم کمی که داره اصلا به راحتی قابل مطالعه نیست اما اشاره به جزئیات ریز و نماد های متعدد و گاهی اوقات کش اومدن بیش از حد توصیفات بدون کارکرد مشخص در پیشبرد داستان دعوت به مراسم گردن زنی رو برای من به یک کتاب ملال آور تبدیل کرد. البته که چشمپوشی از نکات مثبت و نثر شگفت انگیز ناباکوف بی انصافی در حق نویسنده و اثر هست.
سینسیناتوس جز شخصیت های ماندگار در خاطرم ثبت شد. درختی که از سرنوشت راه گریزی نداره، سوختن.
بیستوچهار فروردین صفرسه
March 27, 2009
I see that the review on the GR home page for Invitation to a Beheading compares it to Kafka. It's clear that Nabokov heard this rather more frequently than he wanted to, and was very tired of it. In the foreword to my edition, he has the following comment:
"Emigré reviewers, who were puzzled but liked it, thought they distinguished in it a "Kafkaesque" strain, not knowing that I had no German, was completely ignorant of modern German literature, and had not yet read any French or English translations of Kafka's works. No doubt, there do exist certain stylistic links between this book and, say, my earlier stories (or my later Bend Sinister); but there are none between it and Le chateau or The Trial."
It's true that the word "Kafkaesque" is horribly overused. I love the postcoital scene in Annie Hall with Woody Allen and Shelley Duvall:
REPORTER
(Looking down at him)
I hope you don't mind that I took so long to finish.
ALVY
(Sighing)
Oh, no, no, don't be ... tsch ... don't be silly. You know,
(Yawning)
I'm startin' it-I'm startin' to get some feeling back in my jaw now.
REPORTER
Oh, sex with you is really a Kafkaesque experience.
ALVY
Oh, tsch, thank you. H'm.
REPORTER
I mean that as a compliment.
"Emigré reviewers, who were puzzled but liked it, thought they distinguished in it a "Kafkaesque" strain, not knowing that I had no German, was completely ignorant of modern German literature, and had not yet read any French or English translations of Kafka's works. No doubt, there do exist certain stylistic links between this book and, say, my earlier stories (or my later Bend Sinister); but there are none between it and Le chateau or The Trial."
It's true that the word "Kafkaesque" is horribly overused. I love the postcoital scene in Annie Hall with Woody Allen and Shelley Duvall:
REPORTER
(Looking down at him)
I hope you don't mind that I took so long to finish.
ALVY
(Sighing)
Oh, no, no, don't be ... tsch ... don't be silly. You know,
(Yawning)
I'm startin' it-I'm startin' to get some feeling back in my jaw now.
REPORTER
Oh, sex with you is really a Kafkaesque experience.
ALVY
Oh, tsch, thank you. H'm.
REPORTER
I mean that as a compliment.
June 28, 2023
به نظرم یکی از بهترین کتابهای ناباکوف بود.
September 3, 2016
It would seem that Nabokov entertains the idea that we live under a death sentence, which may be carried out at anytime with or without just cause by forces greater than we are as individuals with our limited scope of power and influence. The book is absurd, of course, in the true sense of the word insofar as it portrays life as essentially beyond our understanding except within the limited sensory confines of everyday life. It is a PoMo classic in the treatment of its themes and Nabokov transports his readers into a dreamlike existence. Cincinnatus would be quite at home with Joseph K. from Kafka and the cast from Beckett. That is, he is a victim of his own inability to understand his life and is trapped in a world far too vast to comprehend with pure reason alone. Yet within the dream state a certain logic prevails in the discourse which lends an air of credibility to the tale: we believe that in some totalitarian state the fate of Cincinnatus is all too real and was in fact inspired by the megalomania of tyrants past in Nabokov's native Russia and elsewhere. He brings to light the shadows of all the Angst of a convict on death row with his unbelief about his circumstances, his regrets for past lapses and failures, false hope of rescue, fear of the final indignity and pain. Yet Cincinnatus ascends the scaffold determined to face his end "By myself" and his redemption seems to be the victory of his will in the final pages of the novel. The engaging style of Nabokov is well worth noting: he is vivid, intelligent, original and credible as a narrator. Like Dostoyevsky in "The Idiot" he stays out of the way of his protagonist insofar as we experience his fate through his eyes. But his fellow characters shape the story line substantially with their own dialogue and actions driven by credible, all-too-human motives. At times, Cincinnatus is simply a silent witness, a felon consumed by dread after his conviction of "agnostic turpitude" of which he barely denies and as an Everyman must certainly be guilty even insofar as it will be the end of him. Nabokov peppers his narrative with nuance and his vision focuses upon a sensual reality which is both compelling and engaging: he really knows how to draw you into this dreamlike tale about the absurdity of life. By now, many of his themes from this novel may seem almost quaint within the PoMo catalogue but he was a force in defining a movement by virtue of the simplicity and power of his narrative gifts. My respect for Nabokov has gone up a notch or two after reading this brief book. Although some may not find satisfaction in the close of this tale, it is well worth reading.
April 11, 2024
به مراسم گردنزنی دعوت شدم. نامه از جنس کفن بود و کلمات با خون نوشته شده بودند. مراسم گردنزنی انسانی متفاوت که به زودی در مرگ با ما شباهت پیدا میکرد. میدان را با تار عنکبوت زینت داده بودند و مردم مشتاق در سرتاسر آن شادی میکردند. یک انسان کمتر. انسان. این کلمه هرگز مفهومی داشته است؟ اهمیتی دارد که از مرگ میترسد یا اینکه به سمت آن پرواز میکند؟
به مراسم گردنزنی دعوت شدم. مردم لباسهای روشن پوشیده بودند. از مردی حرف میزدند که به عدالت میرسید، اما جرم مشخصی نداشت. به آسمان نگاه کردم که ابرها را از آبشار به پایین روانه میکرد. سرگیجه گرفتم.
شمارش دیوانهوار لحظهها تا مرگ، گرچه بیهوده به نظر میرسد، راه را برای مسیری باز میکند که هرگز قادر به تصور آن نخواهیم بود. همیشه همینگونه است. همه چیز را رها میکنیم و چیزی که در پشت پرده و در تاریکی پنهان است همواره همان چیزی است که به ما تعلق دارد و ما به آن تعلق داریم. همیشه همینگونه است. به مراسم گردنزنی دعوت شدم. بدون فکر کردن دعوت را قبول کردم. اما چیزی در پوشش من با دیگران متفاوت بود. نمیدانم. شاید من نیز درست یکی در میان آنها بودم، یکی در میان ناشناختهها. از من میپرسید از قبول این دعوت پشیمانم؟ هرگز.
پ.ن. همخوانی نامهی دعوت کمک زیادی به خوندنش کرد. پیشنهاد میکنم اگه به چنین مراسمی دعوت شدین، دوستانی در بین مردم داشته باشید.
به مراسم گردنزنی دعوت شدم. مردم لباسهای روشن پوشیده بودند. از مردی حرف میزدند که به عدالت میرسید، اما جرم مشخصی نداشت. به آسمان نگاه کردم که ابرها را از آبشار به پایین روانه میکرد. سرگیجه گرفتم.
شمارش دیوانهوار لحظهها تا مرگ، گرچه بیهوده به نظر میرسد، راه را برای مسیری باز میکند که هرگز قادر به تصور آن نخواهیم بود. همیشه همینگونه است. همه چیز را رها میکنیم و چیزی که در پشت پرده و در تاریکی پنهان است همواره همان چیزی است که به ما تعلق دارد و ما به آن تعلق داریم. همیشه همینگونه است. به مراسم گردنزنی دعوت شدم. بدون فکر کردن دعوت را قبول کردم. اما چیزی در پوشش من با دیگران متفاوت بود. نمیدانم. شاید من نیز درست یکی در میان آنها بودم، یکی در میان ناشناختهها. از من میپرسید از قبول این دعوت پشیمانم؟ هرگز.
پ.ن. همخوانی نامهی دعوت کمک زیادی به خوندنش کرد. پیشنهاد میکنم اگه به چنین مراسمی دعوت شدین، دوستانی در بین مردم داشته باشید.
April 16, 2024
درسته کتاب ۲۰۰ صفحه است اما به قیمت کتاب هزار صفحهای تموم شد.
پ.ن: اون دو تا ستارهای هم که دادم بخاطر لذت خوندن نقد و بررسی بچهها طی همخوانی کتاب بود وگرنه که خودم به تنهایی هیچوقت سراغ این کتاب نمیومدم.
پ.ن: اون دو تا ستارهای هم که دادم بخاطر لذت خوندن نقد و بررسی بچهها طی همخوانی کتاب بود وگرنه که خودم به تنهایی هیچوقت سراغ این کتاب نمیومدم.
April 17, 2024
ریویو نوشتن برای این کتاب واقعاً دشواره و من به عنوان یک مخاطب کمسواد عام فقط در تلاشم فهم شخصیم و تجربهای که از خوانش این کتاب داشتم رو به شما منتقل کنم.
دعوت به مراسم گردنزنی جزو کتابهایی است که معرفی کردنش به بقیه خیلی سخت به نظر میرسه. نثر ثقیل کتاب برای من خیلی تازه بود. نثری پر از توصیفات بسیار جزئی. این توصیفات ماهیتاً شباهتی به توصیفاتی که مثلاً در ناتورالیسم زولا داریم ندارد. یعنی اکثراً معطوف به حالات ذهنی، خیالات و توهمات شخصیت اصلی است تا جهان ذهنی او را بسازد. این باعث میشد نه تنها اجازه تصور کردن تصاویر و صحنههای کتاب از من گرفته نشود، بلکه بتوانم در دل سیاهیها و روشنیهایی که ناباکوف میساخت، غوطهور شوم. نثر کتاب باید به دقت و کلمه کلمه خوانده شود. شما نیاز به صد در صد توجهتان برای فهم هر چه بیشتر متن دارید.
از طرفی ترجمه احمد خزاعی در نشر قطره را توهینآمیز یافتم. مترجم پیش از شروع کتاب مینویسد:
ترجمه این کتاب با گرفتاریهای فراوان مترجم همزمان شد و از همین رو با مرزهای آرزو فاصله بسیار دارد.
خب کاش ترجمه نمیکردید! (این برای بار دوم یا سوم است که از یکی از نشرهای محبوبم یعنی قطره زخم میخورم!)
من محاکمه کافکا را نخواندم اما اگر خوانده بودم هم برای شادی روح ناباکوف هم که شده اینجا، مراسم گردنزنی را با محاکمه مقایسه نمیکردم! البته نمیتوانم منکر بشوم که موقعیتی که ناباکوف میساخت چه قدر مرا به یاد آخرین روز یک محکوم هوگو، ظلمت در نیمروز کوستلر و حتی بیگانه کامو میانداخت. به مرور ولی متوجه شدم که سینسیناتوس مراسم گردن زنی، همان قدر که نامش برای یک رمان روسی غریب و دور از ذهن به نظر میرسد، قرارست خاص و منحصربفرد باشد.
ما در تمام داستان فقط یک چیز میفهمیم. سینسیناتوس فرق میکند! حتی هیچگاه توضیح دقیقی داده نمیشود که چه فرقی! سینسیناتوس همیشه تحت محاصره فیزیکی و حضور دیگری غریبهایست که در داستان حضور دارد. دیگریای که حتی تا آخرین لحظه داستان هم هست، اما هیچ وقت نمیتواند به جهان ذهنی سینسیناتوس ورود کند.
سوال من در طی خواندن کتاب این بود، واقعاً جرم او چیست؟
اما انگار این بیاهمیتترین سوال برای ناباکوف و دیگر شخصیتها بود. کسی منتظر نیست که سینسیناتوس اقرار به چیزی کند. خبری از بازجویی و فشار نیست. حتی خانواده او هم مثل خانواده هیچیک از زندانیهای اعدامی رفتار نمی کنند. (کمی اسپویل شاید در ادامه) او حتی در آخرین لحظات هم عاجزانه تنها درخواستش از معشوقش این است که لااقل آنی دلش برای او بتپد و طوری رفتار کند که هر کس در این موقعیت باید رفتار کند! او تصریح میکند و در نامه چنان مینویسد که این فریاد گوشهای بسته را کر کند که من دارم میمیرم. من قرارست کشته شوم!
این کتاب من را کمی ترساند. این بی حسی مردم نسبت به اتفاقی که در ��ریان است. جشن و پایکوبی در میدان شهر و جشن گردنزنی وحشتناک بود. نکته دیگر این بود که مراسم گردنزنی اولین مواجهه ما با جهان خارج از دژ بود. نام اپرایی که در جشن کشتن سینسیناتوس قرار بود نواخته شود، به طرز طعنه آمیزی خنده دار بود.
اپرای خندهآور سقراطها باید کاهش یابند!
یعنی ناباکوف به ما می گوید که جرم سین سیناتوس پرسشگری است؟
کتاب پر از نماد و استعاره بود. استعارههایی که فهمیدنشون باعث میشود لذت بسیار بیشتری از کتاب ببرید و من به لطف همخوانی با همخوانان باسواد متوجهشون شدم. از طرفی هم ناباکوف ارجاعات تاریخی زیادی در متن دارد اما نه چنان که کتاب مربوط به عصری خاص بشود. این هم به نظرم نشانه هوشمندی نوباکوف بوده که نمیخواسته داستانش را محدود به دورهای خاص کند.
پایانبندی و سه بخش انتهایی کتاب برای من لذتبخشترین قسمت کتاب بود و ملال و خستگی اواسط کتاب را به کل از بین برد و باعث شد از ۳/۵ برسم به ۴.
دعوت به مراسم گردنزنی جزو کتابهایی است که معرفی کردنش به بقیه خیلی سخت به نظر میرسه. نثر ثقیل کتاب برای من خیلی تازه بود. نثری پر از توصیفات بسیار جزئی. این توصیفات ماهیتاً شباهتی به توصیفاتی که مثلاً در ناتورالیسم زولا داریم ندارد. یعنی اکثراً معطوف به حالات ذهنی، خیالات و توهمات شخصیت اصلی است تا جهان ذهنی او را بسازد. این باعث میشد نه تنها اجازه تصور کردن تصاویر و صحنههای کتاب از من گرفته نشود، بلکه بتوانم در دل سیاهیها و روشنیهایی که ناباکوف میساخت، غوطهور شوم. نثر کتاب باید به دقت و کلمه کلمه خوانده شود. شما نیاز به صد در صد توجهتان برای فهم هر چه بیشتر متن دارید.
از طرفی ترجمه احمد خزاعی در نشر قطره را توهینآمیز یافتم. مترجم پیش از شروع کتاب مینویسد:
ترجمه این کتاب با گرفتاریهای فراوان مترجم همزمان شد و از همین رو با مرزهای آرزو فاصله بسیار دارد.
خب کاش ترجمه نمیکردید! (این برای بار دوم یا سوم است که از یکی از نشرهای محبوبم یعنی قطره زخم میخورم!)
من محاکمه کافکا را نخواندم اما اگر خوانده بودم هم برای شادی روح ناباکوف هم که شده اینجا، مراسم گردنزنی را با محاکمه مقایسه نمیکردم! البته نمیتوانم منکر بشوم که موقعیتی که ناباکوف میساخت چه قدر مرا به یاد آخرین روز یک محکوم هوگو، ظلمت در نیمروز کوستلر و حتی بیگانه کامو میانداخت. به مرور ولی متوجه شدم که سینسیناتوس مراسم گردن زنی، همان قدر که نامش برای یک رمان روسی غریب و دور از ذهن به نظر میرسد، قرارست خاص و منحصربفرد باشد.
ما در تمام داستان فقط یک چیز میفهمیم. سینسیناتوس فرق میکند! حتی هیچگاه توضیح دقیقی داده نمیشود که چه فرقی! سینسیناتوس همیشه تحت محاصره فیزیکی و حضور دیگری غریبهایست که در داستان حضور دارد. دیگریای که حتی تا آخرین لحظه داستان هم هست، اما هیچ وقت نمیتواند به جهان ذهنی سینسیناتوس ورود کند.
سوال من در طی خواندن کتاب این بود، واقعاً جرم او چیست؟
اما انگار این بیاهمیتترین سوال برای ناباکوف و دیگر شخصیتها بود. کسی منتظر نیست که سینسیناتوس اقرار به چیزی کند. خبری از بازجویی و فشار نیست. حتی خانواده او هم مثل خانواده هیچیک از زندانیهای اعدامی رفتار نمی کنند. (کمی اسپویل شاید در ادامه) او حتی در آخرین لحظات هم عاجزانه تنها درخواستش از معشوقش این است که لااقل آنی دلش برای او بتپد و طوری رفتار کند که هر کس در این موقعیت باید رفتار کند! او تصریح میکند و در نامه چنان مینویسد که این فریاد گوشهای بسته را کر کند که من دارم میمیرم. من قرارست کشته شوم!
این کتاب من را کمی ترساند. این بی حسی مردم نسبت به اتفاقی که در ��ریان است. جشن و پایکوبی در میدان شهر و جشن گردنزنی وحشتناک بود. نکته دیگر این بود که مراسم گردنزنی اولین مواجهه ما با جهان خارج از دژ بود. نام اپرایی که در جشن کشتن سینسیناتوس قرار بود نواخته شود، به طرز طعنه آمیزی خنده دار بود.
اپرای خندهآور سقراطها باید کاهش یابند!
یعنی ناباکوف به ما می گوید که جرم سین سیناتوس پرسشگری است؟
کتاب پر از نماد و استعاره بود. استعارههایی که فهمیدنشون باعث میشود لذت بسیار بیشتری از کتاب ببرید و من به لطف همخوانی با همخوانان باسواد متوجهشون شدم. از طرفی هم ناباکوف ارجاعات تاریخی زیادی در متن دارد اما نه چنان که کتاب مربوط به عصری خاص بشود. این هم به نظرم نشانه هوشمندی نوباکوف بوده که نمیخواسته داستانش را محدود به دورهای خاص کند.
پایانبندی و سه بخش انتهایی کتاب برای من لذتبخشترین قسمت کتاب بود و ملال و خستگی اواسط کتاب را به کل از بین برد و باعث شد از ۳/۵ برسم به ۴.
March 25, 2012
This was great, I love Nabokov when he`s not being so pompous in his prose.
But if I hear one more person label this as `Kafkaesque` I`ll smack them good!
Believe it or not, but generally I am not a fan of the absurd, but I loved the absurdity and helplessness in this novel. Imagine being condemned to death for an undefinable crime and not being told when it is that you will be executed(in Japan apparently pretty much no one knows when someone on death row dies until the actual day, yikes!) and having to put up with quite some quirky characters in one of the most bizarre prisons I`ve ever experienced in reading, and I`ve read The Enormous Room by E.E Cummings!
A few things were easy enough to predict, I won`t say so as to remove the possibility of potential spoilers, but it didn`t really detract from the reading experience. I must say that the ending was unexpected from an author like Nabokov, fans may be a little bit disappointed in that respect.
Anyways, if you`re looking for something a little bizarre but still has literary merit, then this is certainly worth looking into. Others said it drags on here and there, but that`s just how Nabokov is, he grows on you like that.
But if I hear one more person label this as `Kafkaesque` I`ll smack them good!
Believe it or not, but generally I am not a fan of the absurd, but I loved the absurdity and helplessness in this novel. Imagine being condemned to death for an undefinable crime and not being told when it is that you will be executed(in Japan apparently pretty much no one knows when someone on death row dies until the actual day, yikes!) and having to put up with quite some quirky characters in one of the most bizarre prisons I`ve ever experienced in reading, and I`ve read The Enormous Room by E.E Cummings!
A few things were easy enough to predict, I won`t say so as to remove the possibility of potential spoilers, but it didn`t really detract from the reading experience. I must say that the ending was unexpected from an author like Nabokov, fans may be a little bit disappointed in that respect.
Anyways, if you`re looking for something a little bizarre but still has literary merit, then this is certainly worth looking into. Others said it drags on here and there, but that`s just how Nabokov is, he grows on you like that.
May 13, 2017
As I finished the last page of this book, having misty eyes I remembered the foreword of the book.Dear Nabokov I was among the readers who ruffled their hair, who have had been sent into abstract prisons for gnostical turpitude...I too have dreamed of another world, which was full of colors, a world that was more true, more alive...I too have wanted to take off my head like a toupee and then my collarbones like shoulder straps and then my rib cage as a hauberk and then my hips, my legs and my arms and throw them all In a corner and to see what is left of me to gradually dissolve.
February 15, 2021
Ako Nabokova volite, Poziv na pogubljenje će vam osnažiti ljubav. Ako vas Nabokov nervira (sumnjam da iko Nabokova baš mrzi), ovde se možete podsetiti zašto vas nervira. I ako se premećete od jedne do druge krajnosti – od savršenstva Dara do bespotrebnosti Lužinove odbrane – očekuje vas premetanje. Doduše, mnogo više na dobru stranu.
Nabokov – ko Nabokov: izvodi trikove, postavlja zamke i manipuliše bolje od svih drugih, pa nemate kud nego da coknete ’ajd’, dobro i da mu oprostite, čak i kad pokuša da vam proda fazon ukradenog nosa na koji ste prestali da nasedate sa navršene dve godine, jer znate da će vas već u sledećem redu ražalovati poetičnošću ili preneraziti bizarom.
Spremna sam da razumem najrazličitija tumačenja alegorije zatvora u kome je Cincinat (čak do apologije pisanju), ali zaista ne vidim potrebu piščevog pravdanja da Zamak nije čitao, jer uzbudljivijim od njegovog kafkijanstva (i gogoljstva) nalazim rebuse kojim je minirao tekst, poput imena našeg gnoseološkog gnusobnika, ili onog nedovršenog žitija tristogodišnjeg Quercusa, ili onog pepita koje se pod lupom suze pretvara u cicero (za ovo poslednje mi nije pomogao ni ruski izvor, ni engleski prevod Dimitrija Nabokova rađen pod očevim nadzorom, ni hrvatski, ni dva srpska prevoda!).
Naravno da neću propustiti isticanje erotičnost i svoju sreću što se pisac ovoga puta suzdržao od njenog srozavanja na jeftinu pornografiju. Iako je ona ovde tek u nekom daljem planu, epizodna, pa sva suptilna, zapravo je sirovija nego u Loliti: žmarci su me podilazili svaki put kad se Emicina lopta dokotrljala na scenu. A ono sa Marfenjkom, kanibalkom, koju prijap hrani… breskvom!
Nabokov – ko Nabokov: dobar je i može šta hoće, kad hoće.
Nabokov – ko Nabokov: izvodi trikove, postavlja zamke i manipuliše bolje od svih drugih, pa nemate kud nego da coknete ’ajd’, dobro i da mu oprostite, čak i kad pokuša da vam proda fazon ukradenog nosa na koji ste prestali da nasedate sa navršene dve godine, jer znate da će vas već u sledećem redu ražalovati poetičnošću ili preneraziti bizarom.
Spremna sam da razumem najrazličitija tumačenja alegorije zatvora u kome je Cincinat (čak do apologije pisanju), ali zaista ne vidim potrebu piščevog pravdanja da Zamak nije čitao, jer uzbudljivijim od njegovog kafkijanstva (i gogoljstva) nalazim rebuse kojim je minirao tekst, poput imena našeg gnoseološkog gnusobnika, ili onog nedovršenog žitija tristogodišnjeg Quercusa, ili onog pepita koje se pod lupom suze pretvara u cicero (za ovo poslednje mi nije pomogao ni ruski izvor, ni engleski prevod Dimitrija Nabokova rađen pod očevim nadzorom, ni hrvatski, ni dva srpska prevoda!).
Naravno da neću propustiti isticanje erotičnost i svoju sreću što se pisac ovoga puta suzdržao od njenog srozavanja na jeftinu pornografiju. Iako je ona ovde tek u nekom daljem planu, epizodna, pa sva suptilna, zapravo je sirovija nego u Loliti: žmarci su me podilazili svaki put kad se Emicina lopta dokotrljala na scenu. A ono sa Marfenjkom, kanibalkom, koju prijap hrani… breskvom!
Nabokov – ko Nabokov: dobar je i može šta hoće, kad hoće.
March 7, 2019
A complex, allegorical, existentialist work of fiction. One reading is definitely not enough to fully grasp everything Nabokov was trying to convey here. I find it interesting that Nabokov himself said this is not a political piece, and that this takes place around the year 3000 in Russia, and yet thematically so much of the novel has to do with failure to conform, being different, being hard to predict and understand, being hard to see through—this is the crime of Cincinnatus C. for which he is to be executed. The author takes a personal approach, examining the soul and the individual rather than focusing on any kind of totalitarian rule or harshness of law. In fact, everyone and everything around the main character has a touch of absurdism to it, with somewhat of a comedic touch. However, I don't believe the popular comparisons to Kafka are fair here—they only work on a very surface level, but once you dig deeper Invitation to a Beheading goes for a different focus and meaning. I'm going to revisit Kafka's The Trial though, just to make sure I'm not losing my mind here.
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