It took me a while to pinpoint what ailed me while reading this book.
I could say it was the multitude of small and trivial details and the painstaking manner in which the biographer is looking into their corroboration or refutation, something that makes the biography, well, quite frankly, not too engaging.
Rethinking it, however, I believe my annoyance stemmed from the specific approach the biographer took, founded on an underlying assumption and deep belief that we can only touch the exterior of another person; what seems to be true in his case.
Thus, through this semi-apologetic, peradventure modest attitude, which manifests itself already in the in Part locution of the book's title, Field is consciously adopting and applying a behaviouristic approach.
And there's the rub. What interests me in a person, and especially an author of Nabokov's calibre is exactly his internal world, character, and psyche that enabled him to produce such artful masterpieces of the imagination. Even if the price in the final analysis is that the outcome is no more than someone's learned speculation.
In this respect I feel I will enjoy considerably more Nabokov's autobiographical piece Speak, Memory, which I have promptly added to my "to read" shelf, despite, or rather because of, its poetic and less factual nature.
I have been avoiding the genre pretty successfully before reading this particular biography. And I know I'll probably still do for some after reading it, but this book made me think that I might want to try to give the habit a second thought. Its bulk is very well researched and personal, at least in the sense that it shows that writing it mattered more to Mr Field than finishing it. It opens up a bright field, full of details, which I didn't know I needed to know about one of my favourite authors. And it doesn't lose focus by falling into the trap of believing to understand the man simply by weaving a delicate fabric out of externalities such as are the events of and testimonies about somebody else's life. Edmund Wilson's taking a somewhat lengthy appearance in the last chapter reminded me of Chernyshevsky in The Gift's famous Chapter Four — you don't quite understand why it is there and where it went when it's over. But overall I was pleased with the structure, which is chronological without starting with a birth and ending with the present moment. (The book was published 10 years before Nabokov's death in 1977.)
A curious insight into the workings of the Nabokov legend. Andrew Field follows his subject through the years of the emigration, his sojourn in the US and his final decamping back to Europe after the success of Lolita. With interjections by the subject and asides from his wife, this account paints a picture of a very gifted man with an extremely interesting sense of humour.
Oh, to have been a student attending those lectures at Cornell!
Nabokovians know how much crap there is in this book ("His nickname for his Mother as a child was Lolita" and other clangers). Nabokov hated it. Only Nabokovians should read it, just for shits and giggles