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Glory
Glory is the wryly ironic story of Martin Edelweiss, a twenty-two-year-old Russian émigré of no account, who is in love with a girl who refuses to marry him. Convinced that his life is about to be wasted and hoping to impress his love, he embarks on a "perilous, daredevil project"—an illegal attempt to re-enter the Soviet Union, from which he and his mother had fled in 1919. He succeeds—but at a terrible cost.
205 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1931
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About the author
Vladimir Nabokov
894 books15k followersVladimir Nabokov (Russian: Владимир Набоков) was a writer defined by a life of forced movement and extraordinary linguistic transformation. Born into a wealthy, liberal aristocratic family in St. Petersburg, Russia, he grew up trilingual, speaking Russian, English, and French in a household that nurtured his intellectual curiosities, including a lifelong passion for butterflies. This seemingly idyllic, privileged existence was abruptly shattered by the Bolshevik Revolution, which forced the family into permanent exile in 1919. This early, profound experience of displacement and the loss of a homeland became a central, enduring theme in his subsequent work, fueling his exploration of memory, nostalgia, and the irretrievable past.
The first phase of his literary life began in Europe, primarily in Berlin, where he established himself as a leading voice among the Russian émigré community under the pseudonym "Vladimir Sirin". During this prolific period, he penned nine novels in his native tongue, showcasing a precocious talent for intricate plotting and character study. Works like The Defense explored obsession through the extended metaphor of chess, while Invitation to a Beheading served as a potent, surreal critique of totalitarian absurdity. In 1925, he married Véra Slonim, an intellectual force in her own right, who would become his indispensable partner, editor, translator, and lifelong anchor.
The escalating shadow of Nazism necessitated another, urgent relocation in 1940, this time to the United States. It was here that Nabokov undertook an extraordinary linguistic metamorphosis, making the challenging yet resolute shift from Russian to English as his primary language of expression. He became a U.S. citizen in 1945, solidifying his new life in North America. To support his family, he took on academic positions, first founding the Russian department at Wellesley College, and later serving as a highly regarded professor of Russian and European literature at Cornell University from 1948 to 1959.
During this academic tenure, he also dedicated significant time to his other great passion: lepidoptery. He worked as an unpaid curator of butterflies at Harvard University's Museum of Comparative Zoology. His scientific work was far from amateurish; he developed novel taxonomic methods and a groundbreaking, highly debated theory on the migration patterns and phylogeny of the Polyommatus blue butterflies, a hypothesis that modern DNA analysis confirmed decades later.
Nabokov achieved widespread international fame and financial independence with the publication of Lolita in 1955, a novel that was initially met with controversy and censorship battles due to its provocative subject matter concerning a middle-aged literature professor and his obsession with a twelve-year-old girl. The novel's critical and commercial success finally allowed him to leave teaching and academia behind. In 1959, he and Véra moved permanently to the quiet luxury of the Montreux Palace Hotel in Switzerland, where he focused solely on writing, translating his earlier Russian works into meticulous English, and studying local butterflies.
His later English novels, such as Pale Fire (1962), a complex, postmodern narrative structured around a 999-line poem and its delusional commentator, cemented his reputation as a master stylist and a technical genius. His literary style is characterized by intricate wordplay, a profound use of allusion, structural complexity, and an insistence on the artist's total, almost tyrannical, control over their created world. Nabokov often expressed disdain for what he termed "topical trash" and the simplistic interpretations of Freudian psychoanalysis, preferring instead to focus on the power of individual consciousness, the mechanics of memory, and the intricate, often deceptive, interplay between art and perceived "reality". His unique body of work, straddling multiple cultures and languages, continues to
The first phase of his literary life began in Europe, primarily in Berlin, where he established himself as a leading voice among the Russian émigré community under the pseudonym "Vladimir Sirin". During this prolific period, he penned nine novels in his native tongue, showcasing a precocious talent for intricate plotting and character study. Works like The Defense explored obsession through the extended metaphor of chess, while Invitation to a Beheading served as a potent, surreal critique of totalitarian absurdity. In 1925, he married Véra Slonim, an intellectual force in her own right, who would become his indispensable partner, editor, translator, and lifelong anchor.
The escalating shadow of Nazism necessitated another, urgent relocation in 1940, this time to the United States. It was here that Nabokov undertook an extraordinary linguistic metamorphosis, making the challenging yet resolute shift from Russian to English as his primary language of expression. He became a U.S. citizen in 1945, solidifying his new life in North America. To support his family, he took on academic positions, first founding the Russian department at Wellesley College, and later serving as a highly regarded professor of Russian and European literature at Cornell University from 1948 to 1959.
During this academic tenure, he also dedicated significant time to his other great passion: lepidoptery. He worked as an unpaid curator of butterflies at Harvard University's Museum of Comparative Zoology. His scientific work was far from amateurish; he developed novel taxonomic methods and a groundbreaking, highly debated theory on the migration patterns and phylogeny of the Polyommatus blue butterflies, a hypothesis that modern DNA analysis confirmed decades later.
Nabokov achieved widespread international fame and financial independence with the publication of Lolita in 1955, a novel that was initially met with controversy and censorship battles due to its provocative subject matter concerning a middle-aged literature professor and his obsession with a twelve-year-old girl. The novel's critical and commercial success finally allowed him to leave teaching and academia behind. In 1959, he and Véra moved permanently to the quiet luxury of the Montreux Palace Hotel in Switzerland, where he focused solely on writing, translating his earlier Russian works into meticulous English, and studying local butterflies.
His later English novels, such as Pale Fire (1962), a complex, postmodern narrative structured around a 999-line poem and its delusional commentator, cemented his reputation as a master stylist and a technical genius. His literary style is characterized by intricate wordplay, a profound use of allusion, structural complexity, and an insistence on the artist's total, almost tyrannical, control over their created world. Nabokov often expressed disdain for what he termed "topical trash" and the simplistic interpretations of Freudian psychoanalysis, preferring instead to focus on the power of individual consciousness, the mechanics of memory, and the intricate, often deceptive, interplay between art and perceived "reality". His unique body of work, straddling multiple cultures and languages, continues to
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October 5, 2017
I had never heard of this novel by Nabokov before I saw it in a used book pile. The author tells us in a foreword that this was one of his nine Russian novels, his fifth written in Russian (1932). The Russian title was Podvig, which means roughly “gallant feat or high deed.” It’s “…a story of a rarity – a person whose ‘dreams come true.’ ” But who needs “...relief from the itch of being!”
In this quasi-autobiographical novel, a young man’s family circumstances are such that he’s been a world traveler since he was born. He comes of age in St. Petersburg and Yalta. He visits Constantinople and travels by ship from Athens to Marseilles. His family vacations in Biarritz. He lives in Switzerland and Berlin and then goes to school at Cambridge.
His upbringing is equally international. His doting mother reads to him in English rather than in Russian because she “…found Russian fairy tales clumsy, cruel, and squalid, Russian folksongs inane, and Russian riddles idiotic.”
His parents separate; then his father dies. He experiences puppy love, then his first serious sexual affair with an older married woman – pragmatism on both sides, rather than love. He eventually falls in love with a young woman who consistently refuses his hand in marriage but never quite turns him away.
Yet he’s a golden boy. Bright and athletic. He’s a star at tennis and soccer, although he finds he can’t leave his Russian ethnicity behind in England. At Cambridge he feels like a foreigner, hanging out with other Russians and feeling that he is is a “foreign star” on the team. The bulk of the story is set around 1923.
He loves to travel and he dreams of imaginary expeditions --- foreshadowing this story’s tragic ending.
It’s Nabokov, so we have great writing. Like Virginia Woolf, there are extensive passages of descriptions of nature. Some passages I liked:
“The crickets kept crepitating; from time to time there came a sweet whiff of burning juniper; and above the black alpestrine steppe, above the silken sea, the enormous, all-engulfing sky, dove-gray with stars, made one’s head spin…”
“Martin was one of those people for whom a good book before sleep is something to look forward to all day. Such a person, upon happening to recall, amidst routine occupations, that on his bedside table a book is waiting for him, in perfect safety, feels a surge of inexpressible happiness.”
“…he devoted every hour of rain to reading, and soon became familiar with that special smell, the smell of prison libraries, which emanated from Soviet literature.”
Good writing and a decent story, but, of course, not the polished Nabokov of later years.
Photo of the author (1899-1977) from famousbirthdays.com
In this quasi-autobiographical novel, a young man’s family circumstances are such that he’s been a world traveler since he was born. He comes of age in St. Petersburg and Yalta. He visits Constantinople and travels by ship from Athens to Marseilles. His family vacations in Biarritz. He lives in Switzerland and Berlin and then goes to school at Cambridge.
His upbringing is equally international. His doting mother reads to him in English rather than in Russian because she “…found Russian fairy tales clumsy, cruel, and squalid, Russian folksongs inane, and Russian riddles idiotic.”
His parents separate; then his father dies. He experiences puppy love, then his first serious sexual affair with an older married woman – pragmatism on both sides, rather than love. He eventually falls in love with a young woman who consistently refuses his hand in marriage but never quite turns him away.
Yet he’s a golden boy. Bright and athletic. He’s a star at tennis and soccer, although he finds he can’t leave his Russian ethnicity behind in England. At Cambridge he feels like a foreigner, hanging out with other Russians and feeling that he is is a “foreign star” on the team. The bulk of the story is set around 1923.
He loves to travel and he dreams of imaginary expeditions --- foreshadowing this story’s tragic ending.
It’s Nabokov, so we have great writing. Like Virginia Woolf, there are extensive passages of descriptions of nature. Some passages I liked:
“The crickets kept crepitating; from time to time there came a sweet whiff of burning juniper; and above the black alpestrine steppe, above the silken sea, the enormous, all-engulfing sky, dove-gray with stars, made one’s head spin…”
“Martin was one of those people for whom a good book before sleep is something to look forward to all day. Such a person, upon happening to recall, amidst routine occupations, that on his bedside table a book is waiting for him, in perfect safety, feels a surge of inexpressible happiness.”
“…he devoted every hour of rain to reading, and soon became familiar with that special smell, the smell of prison libraries, which emanated from Soviet literature.”
Good writing and a decent story, but, of course, not the polished Nabokov of later years.
Photo of the author (1899-1977) from famousbirthdays.com
February 21, 2022
An early novel written during Nabokov's Russian-language period, Glory is the story of a young man, Martin Edelweiss (the non-Russian surname coming from a Swiss grandfather). After an upper-class upbringing in Russia, the Revolution and the Civil War violently disrupt Martin's idyllic life and he finds himself permanently exiled in Europe, one of many rootless émigrés.
In a series of superbly crafted, evocative vignettes, Nabokov traces Martin's childhood in Russia, his years in Cambridge and his wanderings around Europe. There isn't much dramatic tension in the storyline - the ending is hinted at early on, and by the middle of the novel it is practically spelt out - but the lucid, elaborate and elegant prose, like an intricate filigree artefact, produces an almost tactile sense of place, and the episodic scenes, when taken as a whole, can be seen as a nostalgic love song - to a country the protagonist will never be able to return to and to a dreamlike childhood that harsh adult reality will never be able to match.
In a series of superbly crafted, evocative vignettes, Nabokov traces Martin's childhood in Russia, his years in Cambridge and his wanderings around Europe. There isn't much dramatic tension in the storyline - the ending is hinted at early on, and by the middle of the novel it is practically spelt out - but the lucid, elaborate and elegant prose, like an intricate filigree artefact, produces an almost tactile sense of place, and the episodic scenes, when taken as a whole, can be seen as a nostalgic love song - to a country the protagonist will never be able to return to and to a dreamlike childhood that harsh adult reality will never be able to match.
September 17, 2021
59th book of 2021. Artist for this review is English painter William Ratcliffe.
4.5. As I continue to potter around in Nabokov's Russian émigré novels (attempting them in some semblance of order, when I manage to get hold of them), I come to Glory, a seemingly forgotten and unread novel from 1932, though not translated into English until far later: 1971. It's Nabokov's fifth novel and he is certainly coming into his true form at this point. The novel is mostly plotless and is constructed by vignettes. Nabokov wrote his novels on index cards, never in order, and created the novel from the sum of all the fragments he had written over so many cards, and this novel felt like the closest to the purest form of his process.
It felt like Nabokov's version of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man at times (Joyce, after all, being one of the few writers Nabokov spoke highly of), at other times almost a little like Woolf's Jacob's Room. It is partly a campus novel, at Cambridge university, where our Russian émigré Martin attends, but also a great romp about Europe: Germany, Riga, Switzerland, France, etc. Prior to getting this, I didn't know Nabokov had ever written about England so it was a pleasant surprise. It turns out he attended Trinity College and this novel and The Real Life of Sebastian Knight (which I haven't got to yet) draws on that experience. In short, it is a beautifully-written, charming, mostly sentimental (surprising for Nabokov) bildungsroman. It just misses out on being a 5-star read. The campus-novel elements, the time at university, where all worthy of five-stars for me, but the rest just a little below that. So far though, this has been my favourite of Nabokov's early Russian émigré novels. I read, just today, that this is, in fact, Nicholson Baker's favourite Nabokov novel, of the Russian-written ones.
"Clarence Gardens"—1912
Its vignette-like construction is what reminded me of Woolf's Jacob's Room, though Martin Edelweiss is not drawn as a character by those around him as Jacob is. He spends a lot of his childhood travelling before his Anglophile mother finally sends him to Cambridge. The characters he meets there, Darwin, Vadim, Teddy, were all wonderful. Particularly the former. The camaraderie between the students was a pure joy to read, as it is in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and reminds me of my own days in education. London is drawn well by Nabokov, a sort of sleepy, sometimes rainy, hazy, at times, place. He is enamoured by the unattainable Sonia, and his attempts to impress her take the story in a weird direction towards the end. Nevertheless, it is a short (only 200 or so pages) but dense read; throughout the pages a great deal happens, borderlines are hopped in one line, back in the other.
Martin is a character not too dissimilar from Stephen Dedalus, I suppose. Other than the fact the former is a Russian émigré. He finds he doesn't really know what he wants to do/be. At one point,
Likewise, I seem to remember Stephen Dedalus' family calling him lazy. The sort of young tall thin men that Borges once said were always accosting him and asking about his work seem to be the type of men written about in these bildungsroman novels—pensive, quiet fellows. Nabokov says in the foreword: "Martin is the kindest, uprightest, and most touching of all my young men..."
If for no other reason, it deserves to be read for his prose. Looking at a train window at night,
Who could write that besides Nabokov? I'll end with something more from the foreword:
4.5. As I continue to potter around in Nabokov's Russian émigré novels (attempting them in some semblance of order, when I manage to get hold of them), I come to Glory, a seemingly forgotten and unread novel from 1932, though not translated into English until far later: 1971. It's Nabokov's fifth novel and he is certainly coming into his true form at this point. The novel is mostly plotless and is constructed by vignettes. Nabokov wrote his novels on index cards, never in order, and created the novel from the sum of all the fragments he had written over so many cards, and this novel felt like the closest to the purest form of his process.
It felt like Nabokov's version of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man at times (Joyce, after all, being one of the few writers Nabokov spoke highly of), at other times almost a little like Woolf's Jacob's Room. It is partly a campus novel, at Cambridge university, where our Russian émigré Martin attends, but also a great romp about Europe: Germany, Riga, Switzerland, France, etc. Prior to getting this, I didn't know Nabokov had ever written about England so it was a pleasant surprise. It turns out he attended Trinity College and this novel and The Real Life of Sebastian Knight (which I haven't got to yet) draws on that experience. In short, it is a beautifully-written, charming, mostly sentimental (surprising for Nabokov) bildungsroman. It just misses out on being a 5-star read. The campus-novel elements, the time at university, where all worthy of five-stars for me, but the rest just a little below that. So far though, this has been my favourite of Nabokov's early Russian émigré novels. I read, just today, that this is, in fact, Nicholson Baker's favourite Nabokov novel, of the Russian-written ones.
"Clarence Gardens"—1912
Its vignette-like construction is what reminded me of Woolf's Jacob's Room, though Martin Edelweiss is not drawn as a character by those around him as Jacob is. He spends a lot of his childhood travelling before his Anglophile mother finally sends him to Cambridge. The characters he meets there, Darwin, Vadim, Teddy, were all wonderful. Particularly the former. The camaraderie between the students was a pure joy to read, as it is in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and reminds me of my own days in education. London is drawn well by Nabokov, a sort of sleepy, sometimes rainy, hazy, at times, place. He is enamoured by the unattainable Sonia, and his attempts to impress her take the story in a weird direction towards the end. Nevertheless, it is a short (only 200 or so pages) but dense read; throughout the pages a great deal happens, borderlines are hopped in one line, back in the other.
Martin is a character not too dissimilar from Stephen Dedalus, I suppose. Other than the fact the former is a Russian émigré. He finds he doesn't really know what he wants to do/be. At one point,
'Here, this young man, for example,' Uncle Henry would say, indicating Martin with his walking stick, 'he has finished college, one of the most expensive colleges in the world, and you ask him what he has learned, what he is prepared for. I absolutely don't know what he is going to do next. In my time young men became doctors, soldiers, notaries, while he is probably dreaming of being an aviator or a gigolo.'
Likewise, I seem to remember Stephen Dedalus' family calling him lazy. The sort of young tall thin men that Borges once said were always accosting him and asking about his work seem to be the type of men written about in these bildungsroman novels—pensive, quiet fellows. Nabokov says in the foreword: "Martin is the kindest, uprightest, and most touching of all my young men..."
If for no other reason, it deserves to be read for his prose. Looking at a train window at night,
Martin saw through the window what he had seen as a child—a necklace of lights, far away, among the dark hills. Someone seemed to pour them from one hand into the other, and pocket them.
Who could write that besides Nabokov? I'll end with something more from the foreword:
"The book's—certainly very attractive—working title (later discarded in favor of the pithier Podvig [Glory], 'gallant fear,' 'high deed') was because I had had enough of hearing Western journalists call our era 'materialistic,' 'practical,' 'utilitarian,' etc., but mainly because the purpose of my novel, my only one with a purpose, lay in stressing the thrill and the glamour that my young expatriate finds in the most ordinary pleasures as well as in the seemingly meaningless adventures of a lonely life."
May 6, 2018
Nabokov's prose is brilliant even here, so early in his bibliography. But he commits the rookie mistake of assuming that a personal experience that has been so significant in his life (his own exile from Russia) is interesting per se to readers. Glory offers very little apart from this experience, and this, along with the writing, is note really enough to carry the novel. The plot wafts from trifle to trifle, but never really latches onto anything of importance. The ancillary characters are often quirky and charismatic, but add little to the narrative. Glory, though at times pleasant, ultimately misses the mark. This is one for the fans only.
August 4, 2020
1η δημοσίευση, Book Press:
https://bookpress.gr/kritikes/xeni-pe...
"Όσο και αν φαίνεται αστείο…". Έτσι ακριβώς ξεκινάει η "Δόξα" κι αμέσως ο προσεκτικός αναγνώστης καταλαβαίνει πως έχει βρεθεί βαθιά στα χωρικά ύδατα της Ναμποκο-χώρας. Ιδιαίτερη χώρα ετούτη, περιορισμένης μεν έκτασης, σημαίνουσας όμως βαρύτητας στο διεθνές λογοτεχνικό στερέωμα, εμφορούμενη από ολιγαρχικό πνεύμα (πιστή στο δόγμα "ενός ανδρός αρχή"). Εκ πρώτης ακραιφνώς εγκεφαλική και αποστασιοποιημένη, πλην όμως βαθύτατα απολαυστική για εκείνους που προτιμούν τη βραδυφλεγή έκρηξη της τέχνης του λόγου. Ως προς αυτό αποδεικνύεται πολύ πιο ουσιαστική από την άλλη (την κοινή, τη φορτική) που προτιμά τα πολύχρωμα πυροτεχνήματα και τη στιγμιαία ηδονή, η οποία όμως εξίσου εύκολα παραιτείται και χάνεται στα εξ ων συνετέθη.
Η λογοτεχνία του Ναμπόκοφ είναι μια πορεία σε αμμώδες έδαφος, σαν εκείνη στα όνειρά μας, όπου επιθυμούμε να τρέξουμε αλλά κάτι δεν μας αφήνει, και ολοένα σέρνουμε ένα βάρος που μας κρατά γειωμένους, αγκομαχώντας και πνευστιώντας. Με τη διαφορά πως αυτό το υλικό του εφιάλτη είναι στην περίπτωση της ανάγνωσης των έργων του συγγραφέα μια εκούσια διαδικασία, επιθυμητή και διόλου επώδυνη. Η κίνηση στις παραγράφους, στις σελίδες ποτέ δεν γίνεται με περισσή ευκολία, ο λόγος απέχει πολύ από το να ρέει. Τουναντίον, οι παύσεις -όπως στο όνειρο/ εφιάλτη- είναι επιβεβλημένες, οι βαθιές ανάσες είναι αναγκαίες, οι επιστροφές συχνές.
Ο λόγος του συγγραφέα δεν είναι μακάριος, ευπροσήγορος και πραϋντικός. Συχνά σε προτρέπει σε ανταρσία, σε εξέγερση ενάντια στον "Μοναδικό και το δικό του". Ουδεμία σημασία δεν έχει βέβαια. Ο Ναμπόκοφ δεν είναι ένας ήσσονος σημασίας μαλθακός λογοτεχνικός θεός νέας κοπής, ευεπίφορος στα κελεύσματα και τις δεήσεις των απανταχού πιστών του. Οι θυσίες που απαιτεί από τους ακολούθους του είναι απόλυτες, μη επιδεχόμενες συνθηκολόγησης, καθότι τα δώρα του δεν είναι ποτέ μέτρια, και η εύνοιά του σκληρή σαν αδιαφορία. Η συμφωνία του συγγραφέα με τον αναγνώστη δεν είναι ποτέ αμφοτεροβαρής -πώς θα μπορούσε;-, αλλά βαρύνει αποκλειστικά τον δεύτερο. Εκείνος θα πρέπει να αρθεί στο ύψος των περιστάσεων, αφήνοντας στον πρόδομο τις όποιες επιφυλάξεις, τους ψευδεπίγραφους αίνους, τη συστολή της ανώριμης ταύτισης, εισερχόμενος στον σηκό για τη μυσταγωγική εμπειρία.
"Και τι βρίσκει εκεί;", θα αναρωτηθεί ο νέος ίσως αναγνώστης για το οποίον όλα αυτά ίσως ακούγονται λεκτικές πομφόλυγες, καθότι προκαλούν την υγιή αντίδραση του απέναντι σε μια -έστω πεφωτισμένη- δεσποτεία. Θα βρει, εν προκειμένω, τη "Δόξα". Ένα έργο της νεότητας του συγγραφέα, γραμμένο στη ρωσική γλώσσα (μεταφρασμένο δε εξαιρετικά από αυτή στα ελληνικά), προτού μεταναστεύσει στην Αμερική και ξεκινήσει μια νέα λογοτεχνική καριέρα (εκείνη της ωριμότητάς του) στα αγγλικά. Ως τέτοιο, έχει ομοιότητες μα και σημαντικές διαφορές σε σχέση με το υπόλοιπο έργο του.
Οι ομοιότητες, εν προκειμένω, είναι σαφώς λιγότερες από τις διαφορές. Τούτο σημαίνει πως ο πυρηνικός εαυτός του Ναμπόκοφ βρίσκεται σε κοινή θέα, καθώς ξεδιπλώνει σταδιακά τις αρετές του (όπως τις περιέγραψα προηγουμένως), σε ένα μυθιστόρημα "αισθηματικής αγωγής". Ο νεαρός Ρώσος ήρωάς του ονόματι Μάρτιν, εμιγκρές, φεύγει από τη Ρωσία κυνηγημένος από την επανάσταση, περνώντας από Τουρκία, Ελλάδα (η πρώτη του ερωτική εμπειρία λαμβάνει χώρα στη Γλυφάδα), Ελβετία, για να καταλήξει φοιτητής στο Κέιμπριτζ της Αγγλίας κι από εκεί στο Μόναχο και ξανά πίσω.
Οι διαφορές ωστόσο είναι ακόμα πιο έκδηλες. Και όταν αναφέρομαι σε διαφορές εννοώ πάντοτε το ύφος γραφής, τον αφηγηματικό τρόπο του συγγραφέα, ό,τι τον διαφοροποιεί από τους άλλους ομοτέχνους του. Εκ πρώτης, ο αναγνώστης του Ναμπόκοφ θα οπισθοχωρήσει σύννους με το πέρασμα κάποιων αρχικών κεφαλαίων, διακρίνοντας έντονο λυρισμό, ποιητική γραφή, ακόμα και -αν είναι δυνατόν!- μια κρύφια αίσθηση ρομαντισμού. Ο νεαρός Μάρτιν ανθίζει μέσα στα πάθη του, ένας Ρώσος Βέρθερος που αρχικά τσαλαβουτά νωχελικά και δοκιμαστικά στα ρηχά νερά των συναισθημάτων του. Συλλέκτης εικόνων, ήχων, βλεμμάτων και εμπειριών, ανακαλύπτει ξανά και πάντα για πρώτη φορά την ερωτική επιθυμία, το ξύπνημα των αισθήσεων, τον πόθο – πρώτα για τον εαυτό του και στη συνέχεια για το άλλο φύλλο.
Ο συγγραφέας δείχνει να βυθίζεται περισσότερο από ποτέ στο παρελθόν, με διάθεση σφόδρα νοσταλγική, ανασύροντας εικόνες και οσμές και οράματα και μελωδίες: βιβλία και δωμάτια, χώρος και χρόνος, όραση και αφή, η τυραννία της λεπτομέρειας όπως κατακλύζει τις νεανικές αισθήσεις, ορμητικά, καταιγιστικά. Και η κάθε στιγμή να παραμένει αιώνια, να καταγράφεται βασανιστικά, αλλά εξίσου εύκολα να χάνεται στον αέρα αφήνοντας πίσω της μια γλυκιά αίσθηση ελαφρότητας. Και το κάθε βήμα να οδηγεί σε άλλο χώρο, σε άλλο τόπο, με ανθρώπους που είναι τόσο διαφορετικοί και ταυτόχρονα τόσο ίδιοι, όπως εξάλλου και ο νεαρός μας ήρωας που ανοίγει τα μάτια του κάθε φορά στο καινούργιο με το ίδιο θάμβος, την ίδια πλησμονή. Και οι σκέψεις του, τα αισθήματά του γίνονται λέξεις και αγκαλιάζουν νοσταλγικά τον αναγνώστη.
Ένα φάντασμα πλανιέται επάνω από κάποιες σελίδες της "Δόξας", εκείνο του Προυστ – εντύπωση κελαρυστού ρυακιού, πνοή νοσταλγική που διαποτίζει τις λέξεις και τις αισθήσεις. Ο κόσμος του Μάρτιν διαλύεται ξέπνοα μέσα στον χρόνο που τον αγκαλιάζει μητρικά και του γιατρεύει τις πληγές του. Ο χρόνος στο βιβλίο αυτό είναι ένα κουκούλι, μια μήτρα που θάλπει και προστατεύει, είναι ο χρόνος της νιότης, μια ήρεμη επιφάνεια που μέσα της καθρεφτίζεται το μελλούμενο, μια υπόσχεση ευτυχίας. Δεν είναι ο επιθετικός χρόνος του ηλικιωμένου, η κατάβαση, η ανοίκεια αίσθηση του τέλους που επελαύνει δριμύ. Ακόμα κι ο ανεκπλήρωτος έρωτας του για τη Σόνια δεν έχει τίποτα το δραματικό, καθότι η νεότητα είναι αφ' εαυτήν εκπλήρωση.
Ο Ναμπόκοφ τολμά να γίνει περισσότερο…ανθρώπινος, προσωπικός, ακόμα και γοητευτικός σε σημεία. Ομολογώ πως με ξένισε, δεδομένου πως εκείνο που χαρακτηρίζει τις μεγαλειώδεις στιγμές του είναι η κλινική ματιά, η ειρωνική και αυτοσαρκαστική διάθεση, η ολοκληρωτικά και αισθαντικά παιγνιώδης του αντίληψη για πάντα τα ανθρώπινα, όπως κι αυτή η ιδιαίτερη σχέση με τον αναγνώστη του που συλλέγει κομματάκια του παζλ για να ολοκληρώσει νοητικά την εικόνα. Στη "Δόξα", όλα τα κομμάτια βρίσκονται εμπρός του, ο συγγραφέας δεν στήνει παγίδες-γρίφους που αποπροσανατολίζουν τον αναγνώστη του. Το πιάτο είναι γεμάτο με καλούδια και ο τελευταίος δεν έχει παρά να προσεγγίσει για να απολαύσει. Τούτο δεν σημαίνει πως λείπει το χιούμορ, η σκωπτική προς όλους και όλα διάθεση του συγγραφέα που περιγελά τις βεβαιότητες, καθώς ο ίδιος δείχνει την οδό: "…στη λογοτεχνία δεν αναζητούσε το κοινό νόημα, αλλά απρόσμενα φωτεινά ξέφωτα".
Ο τίτλος του βιβλίου είναι εξ ορισμού διφορούμενος, δεδομένου πως η ρωσική λέξη σημαίνει "Εκπλήρωση", "Κατόρθωμα", ενώ στην αγγλική προτιμήθηκε από τον ίδιο τον συγγραφέα η "Δόξα". Τι ακριβώς δοξαστικό ή άξιο αναφοράς υπάρχει στις αισθηματικές περιπέτειες του νεαρού Μάρτιν είναι δύσκολο εκ πρώτης να διακρίνουμε. Ποιο κατόρθωμα επιτελεί και ποιας εκπλήρωσης τυγχάνει ο ήρωας του Ναμπόκοφ; Να που βρισκόμαστε ξανά πασιχαρείς στη Ναμποκο-χώρα, έχοντας επιτέλους μπροστά μας έναν ακόμα από τους περιβόητους γρίφους του που είναι συγκριτικά ολιγάριθμοι στο εν λόγω μυθιστόρημα. Αλιεύουμε στοιχεία και προχωρούμε…
Καθόλου τυχαία η αναφορά, ήδη από τις πρώτες σελίδες, σε έναν πίνακα στο δωμάτιό του και στο προσκέφαλό του. Απεικονίζεται ένα δελεαστικό μονοπάτι που χάνεται στο δάσος, το οποίο στο μυαλό του μικρού παιδιού είναι μια ισχυρή παρουσία που συνδέεται άρρηκτα με την ιστορία που εκείνη τη στιγμή τού διαβάζει η μητέρα του. Στη φαντασία του έχει ήδη βρει καταφύγιο εντός του και ακολουθεί το μονοπάτι που οδηγεί κάπου, πουθενά, παντού… Στη συνέχεια, το παιδί μεγαλώνει, γίνεται έφηβος, η ύπαρξή του ξετυλίγεται στην εξορία και τίποτα δεν δείχνει να τον συνδέει με τη γενέθλια ρωσική γη που έχει αλλάξει όνομα, ουσία, ζωή. Την ίδια στιγμή η φιλία, η γνώση, η ερωτική επαφή και απογοήτευση, όλα όσα τον συνδέουν με το παρόν του, αποδίδονται ρεαλιστικά από τον συγγραφέα που παρακολουθεί με μάτι άγρυπνο τις ταλαντεύσεις του εκκρεμούς.
Ο Μάρτιν ενηλικιώνεται και σε μια κίνηση απελπισίας αποφασίζει να πλάσει μια χώρα (εκείνη της "Ζουρλανδίας") φανταστική, για τον ίδιο και τον εφηβικό του έρωτα, τη Σόνια. Κι όμως εκείνη θα αρνηθεί να τον ακολουθήσει εκεί, έστω και μεταφορικά, στον ου-τόπο. Εφόσον δεν μπορεί να καταφύγει σε αυτή τη φανταστική χώρα, θα αποφασίσει κάτι εξίσου ουτοπικό: να επιστρέψει στην ανύπαρκτη γενέθλια γη, καθώς δεν υπάρχει τίποτα εκεί πλέον που να τον συνδέει με τη Ρωσία που αγάπησε, τους ανθρώπους της και το πνεύμα της. Το διάβημά του εξ ορισμού απονενοημένο -ένας Δον Κιχώτης που εφορμά ενάντια σε ανεμόμυλους- αφήνει για πάντα πίσω του όσους τον αγάπησαν και αγάπησε και παίρνει, ανεπιστρεπτί, ένα μυστικό και απόμερο μονοπάτι για να περάσει τα σύνορα, μόνος ενάντια σε όλους.
Ο χρόνος παγώνει. Ο έφηβος γίνεται ξανά εκείνο το πιτσιρίκι (που μόνο η αγάπη της μητέρας το κράτησε να μην πετάξει ψηλά και χαθεί), το οποίο στη φαντασία του πήδηξε από το κρεβάτι μέσα σε έναν πίνακα, για να ανακαλύψει την περιπέτεια στο σκοτεινό δάσος. Εκεί, στις τελευταίες σελίδες, το παιδί συναντά τον νέο άντρα, ο οποίος, ως ο έσχατος των ρομαντικών, θα αναζητήσει την προσωπική Δόξα του σε ένα αμιγώς μυθιστορηματικό πεπρωμένο "γραφικό και μυστηριώδες":
"Η ατμόσφαιρα ήταν θολή, κατά τόπους στο μονοπάτι πετάγονταν ρίζες, οι βελόνες των ελάτων τον άγγιζαν κάθε τόσο στον ώμο, σκοτεινό το μονοπάτι στριφογυρνούσε με μαιάνδρους ανάμεσα στους κορμούς, γραφικό και μυστηριώδες".
https://fotiskblog.home.blog/2020/08/...
https://bookpress.gr/kritikes/xeni-pe...
"Όσο και αν φαίνεται αστείο…". Έτσι ακριβώς ξεκινάει η "Δόξα" κι αμέσως ο προσεκτικός αναγνώστης καταλαβαίνει πως έχει βρεθεί βαθιά στα χωρικά ύδατα της Ναμποκο-χώρας. Ιδιαίτερη χώρα ετούτη, περιορισμένης μεν έκτασης, σημαίνουσας όμως βαρύτητας στο διεθνές λογοτεχνικό στερέωμα, εμφορούμενη από ολιγαρχικό πνεύμα (πιστή στο δόγμα "ενός ανδρός αρχή"). Εκ πρώτης ακραιφνώς εγκεφαλική και αποστασιοποιημένη, πλην όμως βαθύτατα απολαυστική για εκείνους που προτιμούν τη βραδυφλεγή έκρηξη της τέχνης του λόγου. Ως προς αυτό αποδεικνύεται πολύ πιο ουσιαστική από την άλλη (την κοινή, τη φορτική) που προτιμά τα πολύχρωμα πυροτεχνήματα και τη στιγμιαία ηδονή, η οποία όμως εξίσου εύκολα παραιτείται και χάνεται στα εξ ων συνετέθη.
Η λογοτεχνία του Ναμπόκοφ είναι μια πορεία σε αμμώδες έδαφος, σαν εκείνη στα όνειρά μας, όπου επιθυμούμε να τρέξουμε αλλά κάτι δεν μας αφήνει, και ολοένα σέρνουμε ένα βάρος που μας κρατά γειωμένους, αγκομαχώντας και πνευστιώντας. Με τη διαφορά πως αυτό το υλικό του εφιάλτη είναι στην περίπτωση της ανάγνωσης των έργων του συγγραφέα μια εκούσια διαδικασία, επιθυμητή και διόλου επώδυνη. Η κίνηση στις παραγράφους, στις σελίδες ποτέ δεν γίνεται με περισσή ευκολία, ο λόγος απέχει πολύ από το να ρέει. Τουναντίον, οι παύσεις -όπως στο όνειρο/ εφιάλτη- είναι επιβεβλημένες, οι βαθιές ανάσες είναι αναγκαίες, οι επιστροφές συχνές.
Ο λόγος του συγγραφέα δεν είναι μακάριος, ευπροσήγορος και πραϋντικός. Συχνά σε προτρέπει σε ανταρσία, σε εξέγερση ενάντια στον "Μοναδικό και το δικό του". Ουδεμία σημασία δεν έχει βέβαια. Ο Ναμπόκοφ δεν είναι ένας ήσσονος σημασίας μαλθακός λογοτεχνικός θεός νέας κοπής, ευεπίφορος στα κελεύσματα και τις δεήσεις των απανταχού πιστών του. Οι θυσίες που απαιτεί από τους ακολούθους του είναι απόλυτες, μη επιδεχόμενες συνθηκολόγησης, καθότι τα δώρα του δεν είναι ποτέ μέτρια, και η εύνοιά του σκληρή σαν αδιαφορία. Η συμφωνία του συγγραφέα με τον αναγνώστη δεν είναι ποτέ αμφοτεροβαρής -πώς θα μπορούσε;-, αλλά βαρύνει αποκλειστικά τον δεύτερο. Εκείνος θα πρέπει να αρθεί στο ύψος των περιστάσεων, αφήνοντας στον πρόδομο τις όποιες επιφυλάξεις, τους ψευδεπίγραφους αίνους, τη συστολή της ανώριμης ταύτισης, εισερχόμενος στον σηκό για τη μυσταγωγική εμπειρία.
"Και τι βρίσκει εκεί;", θα αναρωτηθεί ο νέος ίσως αναγνώστης για το οποίον όλα αυτά ίσως ακούγονται λεκτικές πομφόλυγες, καθότι προκαλούν την υγιή αντίδραση του απέναντι σε μια -έστω πεφωτισμένη- δεσποτεία. Θα βρει, εν προκειμένω, τη "Δόξα". Ένα έργο της νεότητας του συγγραφέα, γραμμένο στη ρωσική γλώσσα (μεταφρασμένο δε εξαιρετικά από αυτή στα ελληνικά), προτού μεταναστεύσει στην Αμερική και ξεκινήσει μια νέα λογοτεχνική καριέρα (εκείνη της ωριμότητάς του) στα αγγλικά. Ως τέτοιο, έχει ομοιότητες μα και σημαντικές διαφορές σε σχέση με το υπόλοιπο έργο του.
Οι ομοιότητες, εν προκειμένω, είναι σαφώς λιγότερες από τις διαφορές. Τούτο σημαίνει πως ο πυρηνικός εαυτός του Ναμπόκοφ βρίσκεται σε κοινή θέα, καθώς ξεδιπλώνει σταδιακά τις αρετές του (όπως τις περιέγραψα προηγουμένως), σε ένα μυθιστόρημα "αισθηματικής αγωγής". Ο νεαρός Ρώσος ήρωάς του ονόματι Μάρτιν, εμιγκρές, φεύγει από τη Ρωσία κυνηγημένος από την επανάσταση, περνώντας από Τουρκία, Ελλάδα (η πρώτη του ερωτική εμπειρία λαμβάνει χώρα στη Γλυφάδα), Ελβετία, για να καταλήξει φοιτητής στο Κέιμπριτζ της Αγγλίας κι από εκεί στο Μόναχο και ξανά πίσω.
Οι διαφορές ωστόσο είναι ακόμα πιο έκδηλες. Και όταν αναφέρομαι σε διαφορές εννοώ πάντοτε το ύφος γραφής, τον αφηγηματικό τρόπο του συγγραφέα, ό,τι τον διαφοροποιεί από τους άλλους ομοτέχνους του. Εκ πρώτης, ο αναγνώστης του Ναμπόκοφ θα οπισθοχωρήσει σύννους με το πέρασμα κάποιων αρχικών κεφαλαίων, διακρίνοντας έντονο λυρισμό, ποιητική γραφή, ακόμα και -αν είναι δυνατόν!- μια κρύφια αίσθηση ρομαντισμού. Ο νεαρός Μάρτιν ανθίζει μέσα στα πάθη του, ένας Ρώσος Βέρθερος που αρχικά τσαλαβουτά νωχελικά και δοκιμαστικά στα ρηχά νερά των συναισθημάτων του. Συλλέκτης εικόνων, ήχων, βλεμμάτων και εμπειριών, ανακαλύπτει ξανά και πάντα για πρώτη φορά την ερωτική επιθυμία, το ξύπνημα των αισθήσεων, τον πόθο – πρώτα για τον εαυτό του και στη συνέχεια για το άλλο φύλλο.
Ο συγγραφέας δείχνει να βυθίζεται περισσότερο από ποτέ στο παρελθόν, με διάθεση σφόδρα νοσταλγική, ανασύροντας εικόνες και οσμές και οράματα και μελωδίες: βιβλία και δωμάτια, χώρος και χρόνος, όραση και αφή, η τυραννία της λεπτομέρειας όπως κατακλύζει τις νεανικές αισθήσεις, ορμητικά, καταιγιστικά. Και η κάθε στιγμή να παραμένει αιώνια, να καταγράφεται βασανιστικά, αλλά εξίσου εύκολα να χάνεται στον αέρα αφήνοντας πίσω της μια γλυκιά αίσθηση ελαφρότητας. Και το κάθε βήμα να οδηγεί σε άλλο χώρο, σε άλλο τόπο, με ανθρώπους που είναι τόσο διαφορετικοί και ταυτόχρονα τόσο ίδιοι, όπως εξάλλου και ο νεαρός μας ήρωας που ανοίγει τα μάτια του κάθε φορά στο καινούργιο με το ίδιο θάμβος, την ίδια πλησμονή. Και οι σκέψεις του, τα αισθήματά του γίνονται λέξεις και αγκαλιάζουν νοσταλγικά τον αναγνώστη.
Ένα φάντασμα πλανιέται επάνω από κάποιες σελίδες της "Δόξας", εκείνο του Προυστ – εντύπωση κελαρυστού ρυακιού, πνοή νοσταλγική που διαποτίζει τις λέξεις και τις αισθήσεις. Ο κόσμος του Μάρτιν διαλύεται ξέπνοα μέσα στον χρόνο που τον αγκαλιάζει μητρικά και του γιατρεύει τις πληγές του. Ο χρόνος στο βιβλίο αυτό είναι ένα κουκούλι, μια μήτρα που θάλπει και προστατεύει, είναι ο χρόνος της νιότης, μια ήρεμη επιφάνεια που μέσα της καθρεφτίζεται το μελλούμενο, μια υπόσχεση ευτυχίας. Δεν είναι ο επιθετικός χρόνος του ηλικιωμένου, η κατάβαση, η ανοίκεια αίσθηση του τέλους που επελαύνει δριμύ. Ακόμα κι ο ανεκπλήρωτος έρωτας του για τη Σόνια δεν έχει τίποτα το δραματικό, καθότι η νεότητα είναι αφ' εαυτήν εκπλήρωση.
Ο Ναμπόκοφ τολμά να γίνει περισσότερο…ανθρώπινος, προσωπικός, ακόμα και γοητευτικός σε σημεία. Ομολογώ πως με ξένισε, δεδομένου πως εκείνο που χαρακτηρίζει τις μεγαλειώδεις στιγμές του είναι η κλινική ματιά, η ειρωνική και αυτοσαρκαστική διάθεση, η ολοκληρωτικά και αισθαντικά παιγνιώδης του αντίληψη για πάντα τα ανθρώπινα, όπως κι αυτή η ιδιαίτερη σχέση με τον αναγνώστη του που συλλέγει κομματάκια του παζλ για να ολοκληρώσει νοητικά την εικόνα. Στη "Δόξα", όλα τα κομμάτια βρίσκονται εμπρός του, ο συγγραφέας δεν στήνει παγίδες-γρίφους που αποπροσανατολίζουν τον αναγνώστη του. Το πιάτο είναι γεμάτο με καλούδια και ο τελευταίος δεν έχει παρά να προσεγγίσει για να απολαύσει. Τούτο δεν σημαίνει πως λείπει το χιούμορ, η σκωπτική προς όλους και όλα διάθεση του συγγραφέα που περιγελά τις βεβαιότητες, καθώς ο ίδιος δείχνει την οδό: "…στη λογοτεχνία δεν αναζητούσε το κοινό νόημα, αλλά απρόσμενα φωτεινά ξέφωτα".
Ο τίτλος του βιβλίου είναι εξ ορισμού διφορούμενος, δεδομένου πως η ρωσική λέξη σημαίνει "Εκπλήρωση", "Κατόρθωμα", ενώ στην αγγλική προτιμήθηκε από τον ίδιο τον συγγραφέα η "Δόξα". Τι ακριβώς δοξαστικό ή άξιο αναφοράς υπάρχει στις αισθηματικές περιπέτειες του νεαρού Μάρτιν είναι δύσκολο εκ πρώτης να διακρίνουμε. Ποιο κατόρθωμα επιτελεί και ποιας εκπλήρωσης τυγχάνει ο ήρωας του Ναμπόκοφ; Να που βρισκόμαστε ξανά πασιχαρείς στη Ναμποκο-χώρα, έχοντας επιτέλους μπροστά μας έναν ακόμα από τους περιβόητους γρίφους του που είναι συγκριτικά ολιγάριθμοι στο εν λόγω μυθιστόρημα. Αλιεύουμε στοιχεία και προχωρούμε…
Καθόλου τυχαία η αναφορά, ήδη από τις πρώτες σελίδες, σε έναν πίνακα στο δωμάτιό του και στο προσκέφαλό του. Απεικονίζεται ένα δελεαστικό μονοπάτι που χάνεται στο δάσος, το οποίο στο μυαλό του μικρού παιδιού είναι μια ισχυρή παρουσία που συνδέεται άρρηκτα με την ιστορία που εκείνη τη στιγμή τού διαβάζει η μητέρα του. Στη φαντασία του έχει ήδη βρει καταφύγιο εντός του και ακολουθεί το μονοπάτι που οδηγεί κάπου, πουθενά, παντού… Στη συνέχεια, το παιδί μεγαλώνει, γίνεται έφηβος, η ύπαρξή του ξετυλίγεται στην εξορία και τίποτα δεν δείχνει να τον συνδέει με τη γενέθλια ρωσική γη που έχει αλλάξει όνομα, ουσία, ζωή. Την ίδια στιγμή η φιλία, η γνώση, η ερωτική επαφή και απογοήτευση, όλα όσα τον συνδέουν με το παρόν του, αποδίδονται ρεαλιστικά από τον συγγραφέα που παρακολουθεί με μάτι άγρυπνο τις ταλαντεύσεις του εκκρεμούς.
Ο Μάρτιν ενηλικιώνεται και σε μια κίνηση απελπισίας αποφασίζει να πλάσει μια χώρα (εκείνη της "Ζουρλανδίας") φανταστική, για τον ίδιο και τον εφηβικό του έρωτα, τη Σόνια. Κι όμως εκείνη θα αρνηθεί να τον ακολουθήσει εκεί, έστω και μεταφορικά, στον ου-τόπο. Εφόσον δεν μπορεί να καταφύγει σε αυτή τη φανταστική χώρα, θα αποφασίσει κάτι εξίσου ουτοπικό: να επιστρέψει στην ανύπαρκτη γενέθλια γη, καθώς δεν υπάρχει τίποτα εκεί πλέον που να τον συνδέει με τη Ρωσία που αγάπησε, τους ανθρώπους της και το πνεύμα της. Το διάβημά του εξ ορισμού απονενοημένο -ένας Δον Κιχώτης που εφορμά ενάντια σε ανεμόμυλους- αφήνει για πάντα πίσω του όσους τον αγάπησαν και αγάπησε και παίρνει, ανεπιστρεπτί, ένα μυστικό και απόμερο μονοπάτι για να περάσει τα σύνορα, μόνος ενάντια σε όλους.
Ο χρόνος παγώνει. Ο έφηβος γίνεται ξανά εκείνο το πιτσιρίκι (που μόνο η αγάπη της μητέρας το κράτησε να μην πετάξει ψηλά και χαθεί), το οποίο στη φαντασία του πήδηξε από το κρεβάτι μέσα σε έναν πίνακα, για να ανακαλύψει την περιπέτεια στο σκοτεινό δάσος. Εκεί, στις τελευταίες σελίδες, το παιδί συναντά τον νέο άντρα, ο οποίος, ως ο έσχατος των ρομαντικών, θα αναζητήσει την προσωπική Δόξα του σε ένα αμιγώς μυθιστορηματικό πεπρωμένο "γραφικό και μυστηριώδες":
"Η ατμόσφαιρα ήταν θολή, κατά τόπους στο μονοπάτι πετάγονταν ρίζες, οι βελόνες των ελάτων τον άγγιζαν κάθε τόσο στον ώμο, σκοτεινό το μονοπάτι στριφογυρνούσε με μαιάνδρους ανάμεσα στους κορμούς, γραφικό και μυστηριώδες".
https://fotiskblog.home.blog/2020/08/...
March 7, 2018
Early Nabokov, brimming with bountiful lyrical light-fantastic tripping across Russia, Germany, and England, as the hero bumbles into his Cambridge education and chases an indifferent Teutonic vamp for too long. One of the more nostalgic, sincere novels from a pen that became sourer, more acerbic, and esoteric with time.
May 24, 2020
Seems Nabokov drifted away from his own world in his writing, and then began to return, focusing on the Russian exile community with The Luzhin Defense and The Eye, and here focusing on young exiles in the 1920's, his own milieu. And, here, finally, it makes for a terrific book.
Martin Edelweiss is half-Swiss, grew up in St. Petersburg, but he begins the book as a teenager with his divorced mother, leaving Yalta to maybe places unknown. He ends up in Switzerland with an uncle, and later in Cambridge with other Russian students and an English student named, provocatively, Darwin. And there's an unrequited love interest, a Russian exile in London. Nabokov focuses on Martin and his narrow perspectives, emotions, and responses to the world around him. There are politics in the periphery, but mostly Martin isn't thinking about that. He is a coming of age hormonal, intelligent and athletic college student. I enjoyed Nabokov focusing more in on his own life experiences, in a way kind of humbling himself more than in his previous novels to what knew. There is a sense of integrity to the novel. Martin has his trials, pushing himself on the brink of Swiss cliffs, jumping off trains in unknown places, and struggling with a disappointment he cannot quite understand.
This is Nabokov's 5th novel, and, as I read through them, this was easily my favorite so far. It's finally driven me to be curious enough about his life to check out some books. After I finished I ordered a short biography by Jane Grayson, and a longer biography of his wife, Vera, by Stacy Schiff. Not exactly one to recommend, as it's not a wow kind of novel, but definitely one you might enjoy, if you're interested, and I think will reward the effort.
-----------------------------------------------
26. Glory by Vladimir Nabokov
translation: from Russian, by Dmitri Nabokov, with the author, 1971
published: 1930
format: 211-page 1971 hardcover
acquired: 2011, from my in-laws
read: May 2-18
time reading: 7 hr 43 min, 2.2 min/page
rating: 4
locations: Yalta, Athens, Switzerland, Cambridge, Berlin, southern France
about the author: 1899 – 1977. Russia born, educated at Trinity College in Cambridge, 1922, lived in Berlin (1922-1937), Paris, the US (1941-1961) and Montreux, Switzerland (1961-1977).
Martin Edelweiss is half-Swiss, grew up in St. Petersburg, but he begins the book as a teenager with his divorced mother, leaving Yalta to maybe places unknown. He ends up in Switzerland with an uncle, and later in Cambridge with other Russian students and an English student named, provocatively, Darwin. And there's an unrequited love interest, a Russian exile in London. Nabokov focuses on Martin and his narrow perspectives, emotions, and responses to the world around him. There are politics in the periphery, but mostly Martin isn't thinking about that. He is a coming of age hormonal, intelligent and athletic college student. I enjoyed Nabokov focusing more in on his own life experiences, in a way kind of humbling himself more than in his previous novels to what knew. There is a sense of integrity to the novel. Martin has his trials, pushing himself on the brink of Swiss cliffs, jumping off trains in unknown places, and struggling with a disappointment he cannot quite understand.
This is Nabokov's 5th novel, and, as I read through them, this was easily my favorite so far. It's finally driven me to be curious enough about his life to check out some books. After I finished I ordered a short biography by Jane Grayson, and a longer biography of his wife, Vera, by Stacy Schiff. Not exactly one to recommend, as it's not a wow kind of novel, but definitely one you might enjoy, if you're interested, and I think will reward the effort.
-----------------------------------------------
26. Glory by Vladimir Nabokov
translation: from Russian, by Dmitri Nabokov, with the author, 1971
published: 1930
format: 211-page 1971 hardcover
acquired: 2011, from my in-laws
read: May 2-18
time reading: 7 hr 43 min, 2.2 min/page
rating: 4
locations: Yalta, Athens, Switzerland, Cambridge, Berlin, southern France
about the author: 1899 – 1977. Russia born, educated at Trinity College in Cambridge, 1922, lived in Berlin (1922-1937), Paris, the US (1941-1961) and Montreux, Switzerland (1961-1977).
Read
February 10, 2017Nicely observed novel centred on Russian emigres in Europe between the wars. Unusually for Nabokov much of the action takes place in England.
Not as harsh in tone as earlier novels like Invitation to a Beheading or Laughter in the Dark, the tone is more similar to later works. Transitional also in that it was written in Russian, he had gone the way of Joseph Conrad and made English his own as a literary tool at this stage in his career.
The central character, a somewhat annoying youth, has an obsessive love for a young woman who is not as interested in him, while he, isolated from his Russian roots hankers after the achievement of some heroic deed which will define for him his place in the world since becoming a tennis playing elective Englishman despite an Oxbridge education for some curious reason does not appeal for him.If it did this would be a different novel, the desire for a certain identity is the issue, this is perhaps a book of the path not taken which made all the difference, Nabokov, sitting at his chessboard imagining an alternative game to the one he was playing.
Seriously I have a proper spoiler:
Not as harsh in tone as earlier novels like Invitation to a Beheading or Laughter in the Dark, the tone is more similar to later works. Transitional also in that it was written in Russian, he had gone the way of Joseph Conrad and made English his own as a literary tool at this stage in his career.
The central character, a somewhat annoying youth, has an obsessive love for a young woman who is not as interested in him, while he, isolated from his Russian roots hankers after the achievement of some heroic deed which will define for him his place in the world since becoming a tennis playing elective Englishman despite an Oxbridge education for some curious reason does not appeal for him.If it did this would be a different novel, the desire for a certain identity is the issue, this is perhaps a book of the path not taken which made all the difference, Nabokov, sitting at his chessboard imagining an alternative game to the one he was playing.
Seriously I have a proper spoiler:
June 25, 2020
Why have I given Glory four stars? The prose! This is my immediate response. Nabokov captures a kaleidoscope of sensations as few authors can do. Prior to this I had just read a book that was the opposite. There, every word was wrong, poorly chosen and jarring. Words are important. The contrast was shocking. The difference hit me like a hammer blow to the head.
The book’s central character is Martin Edelweiss. He is a Russian émigré but with Swiss heritage on his father’s side. His father has died, but he has still close ties to his mother. She is living near Lausanne, Switzerland, having remarried the brother of her divorced and now dead husband, Martin’s uncle, Uncle Henry. Martin was born in 1902 in St. Petersburg. It was here he was raised. During the revolution, mother and son had escaped from Russia to Europe via the Crimea. Traveling and seeing different parts of Europe was a part of his upbringing, having left in Martin indelible memories of which we are told. It is in these descriptions that the text sparkles.
The scene shifts to Cambridge. Martin is studying--philology and Russian literature. Not that he has any definite goals or plans, which disturbs and annoys his elders. At the university and in London he mixes with both English students and those of the Russian émigré community. He is shown to be an ordinary guy, neither artistic nor particularly talented and rather gullible.
At Cambridge, the story morphs into a bildungsroman. Martin consorts and converses with friends, is active in sports but is not involved in politics. The civil war is unfolding in Russia, he does not involve himself. He travels when he can. He falls in love. His love is not returned. He comes up with an idea……
Martin does a risky, daredevil thing. It is with this action that my problems with the book arise. It doesn’t make sense to me that he does what he does. He is not politically motivated. I do not see what he does as a feasible way of impressing the woman he loves. I do not see him as a daredevil. The only explanation I can come up with is that he has no goal, no direction in his life. He is at loose ends. Ordinary people can get caught up in an idea and we don’t always stop and think of the consequences. An idea pops into our head, and it keeps rolling.
So the plot, the events at the end, give me trouble. Martin gets into problems because he is such an ordinary schmuck! This happens to all of us, well, most of us at least. I don’t buy that !
I am still giving the book four stars, because, as I read, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The end had me thinking, which isn’t bad either. I love the so sensorially perfect, brilliant and apt descriptions of places and people and childhood memories that pop up from the author’s own youth. The book has autobiographical elements. When these come to the fore, they shine. But make no mistake, this is by no means a quasi-autobiography. There are many fictional elements thrown in.
Luke Daniels narrates the audiobook very well, and so I have given the narration performance four stars. He reads clearly, in an understated fashion, with good timing and tempo.
The audiobook has a short foreword written by the author. The book was written in Russian. It has been translated by the author’s son. They worked together when doing this. Vladimir endorses the result, certifying that what we are reading or listening to accurately captures the innuendos of the Russian text. I think this shows. I was comfortable reading this translation.
Some of Nabokov's books are complicated and difficult to follow. This isn't.
****************
*Lolita 5 stars
*Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle 5 stars
*Speak, Memory 5 stars
*Glory 4 stars
*Pale Fire 2 stars
*Pnin 1 star
*Despair 1 star
*The Gift TBR
*Mary TBR
*Laughter in the Dark TBR
*Transparent Things TBR
*King, Queen, Knave TBR
*The Real Life of Sebastian Knight TBR
The book’s central character is Martin Edelweiss. He is a Russian émigré but with Swiss heritage on his father’s side. His father has died, but he has still close ties to his mother. She is living near Lausanne, Switzerland, having remarried the brother of her divorced and now dead husband, Martin’s uncle, Uncle Henry. Martin was born in 1902 in St. Petersburg. It was here he was raised. During the revolution, mother and son had escaped from Russia to Europe via the Crimea. Traveling and seeing different parts of Europe was a part of his upbringing, having left in Martin indelible memories of which we are told. It is in these descriptions that the text sparkles.
The scene shifts to Cambridge. Martin is studying--philology and Russian literature. Not that he has any definite goals or plans, which disturbs and annoys his elders. At the university and in London he mixes with both English students and those of the Russian émigré community. He is shown to be an ordinary guy, neither artistic nor particularly talented and rather gullible.
At Cambridge, the story morphs into a bildungsroman. Martin consorts and converses with friends, is active in sports but is not involved in politics. The civil war is unfolding in Russia, he does not involve himself. He travels when he can. He falls in love. His love is not returned. He comes up with an idea……
Martin does a risky, daredevil thing. It is with this action that my problems with the book arise. It doesn’t make sense to me that he does what he does. He is not politically motivated. I do not see what he does as a feasible way of impressing the woman he loves. I do not see him as a daredevil. The only explanation I can come up with is that he has no goal, no direction in his life. He is at loose ends. Ordinary people can get caught up in an idea and we don’t always stop and think of the consequences. An idea pops into our head, and it keeps rolling.
So the plot, the events at the end, give me trouble. Martin gets into problems because he is such an ordinary schmuck! This happens to all of us, well, most of us at least. I don’t buy that !
I am still giving the book four stars, because, as I read, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The end had me thinking, which isn’t bad either. I love the so sensorially perfect, brilliant and apt descriptions of places and people and childhood memories that pop up from the author’s own youth. The book has autobiographical elements. When these come to the fore, they shine. But make no mistake, this is by no means a quasi-autobiography. There are many fictional elements thrown in.
Luke Daniels narrates the audiobook very well, and so I have given the narration performance four stars. He reads clearly, in an understated fashion, with good timing and tempo.
The audiobook has a short foreword written by the author. The book was written in Russian. It has been translated by the author’s son. They worked together when doing this. Vladimir endorses the result, certifying that what we are reading or listening to accurately captures the innuendos of the Russian text. I think this shows. I was comfortable reading this translation.
Some of Nabokov's books are complicated and difficult to follow. This isn't.
****************
*Lolita 5 stars
*Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle 5 stars
*Speak, Memory 5 stars
*Glory 4 stars
*Pale Fire 2 stars
*Pnin 1 star
*Despair 1 star
*The Gift TBR
*Mary TBR
*Laughter in the Dark TBR
*Transparent Things TBR
*King, Queen, Knave TBR
*The Real Life of Sebastian Knight TBR
April 27, 2017
THIS JUST IN: For all you McCarthy-bros who think that the ‘Mac has the market cornered on depicting landscape, he don’t. As evidence, I submit VVN’s Glory for your consideration as the equal, if not superior, of anything by the old coot in that department. Call it Nabokov’s naturalist novel; call it Sally for all I care. The fact of the matter is that while McCarthy does accomplish tremendous things in cataloging flora, it’s just that: cold, emotionless minutiae (I speak of the Southwestern novels; the Tennessean are the lovely exception in almost every way). VVN, meanwhile, treats us to an account of earthly surroundings that sings, by God! Plangent, impossibly-evocative, poetical detailing that places you head-first into the foliage, the vines, flowers, trees, rivers, fissures and mounts of a Europe rendered so exquisitely that I now have an excuse to not go outside for another four months! Rejoice!
VVN would never tread these waters again, never appear so deeply attenuated to Nature (though he was, of course; lepidoptery). The story is fine, great even at points, but the real treasure here is to take in the natural world as seen through the eyes of—and here is the inevitable phrase that is written on the back or inner flap of every book ever written by the man—‘the greatest prose stylist of the 20th century.’ What the f____ is a ‘prose stylist’ anyway? Why is that appellation always superadded to his already-recognized CV? Has anyone, in the history of the world, ever walked into a book shop and asked the clerk for ‘something by one of the great (any will do) prose stylists of the 20th century’?!? Of course not! Chameleonic, sure. Adaptive, of course. Genre-ist, possibly. But please, publishing houses (whose ear by now I’ve surely bent; whose milkshake I drink up), stop with this ‘prose stylist’ shit. It’s demeaning. It implies surface above substance, and any Nabokov reader will attest that to be the falsest of all advertising.
(Note: Look at me, I’m proselytizin’! I am in the zone—spreading the Gospel, the True Funk, What It Is-What It Was-What It Shall Be! Hallelujah!)
(Ed.—we apologize for the above meandering ‘review.’ Please bear in mind that its author composed this while in the throes of fever on his sixth-day of illness. We appreciate your patronage and promise to make things right in tomorrow’s review of Harry Potter and the Broken Wand of Erectile Dysfunction. Thank you and good night, America.)
VVN would never tread these waters again, never appear so deeply attenuated to Nature (though he was, of course; lepidoptery). The story is fine, great even at points, but the real treasure here is to take in the natural world as seen through the eyes of—and here is the inevitable phrase that is written on the back or inner flap of every book ever written by the man—‘the greatest prose stylist of the 20th century.’ What the f____ is a ‘prose stylist’ anyway? Why is that appellation always superadded to his already-recognized CV? Has anyone, in the history of the world, ever walked into a book shop and asked the clerk for ‘something by one of the great (any will do) prose stylists of the 20th century’?!? Of course not! Chameleonic, sure. Adaptive, of course. Genre-ist, possibly. But please, publishing houses (whose ear by now I’ve surely bent; whose milkshake I drink up), stop with this ‘prose stylist’ shit. It’s demeaning. It implies surface above substance, and any Nabokov reader will attest that to be the falsest of all advertising.
(Note: Look at me, I’m proselytizin’! I am in the zone—spreading the Gospel, the True Funk, What It Is-What It Was-What It Shall Be! Hallelujah!)
(Ed.—we apologize for the above meandering ‘review.’ Please bear in mind that its author composed this while in the throes of fever on his sixth-day of illness. We appreciate your patronage and promise to make things right in tomorrow’s review of Harry Potter and the Broken Wand of Erectile Dysfunction. Thank you and good night, America.)
February 6, 2014
3.5 stars. Review pending.
I left that whole "Review pending" thing up there for a reason, or, more accurately a sort of disclaimer. You see, as I'm reading I'm also generally putting together a very rough outline of my to-be-written review. Unfortunately, when I wait even a week to write said review and read even a single other book in that time, I completely forget what I would have written. So this is one of those: a review half-salvaged from the fog of a full week's passing.
What do I know? I know that the sole purpose of this book "lay in stressing the thrill and the glamour that [a] young expatriate finds in the most ordinary pleasures as well as in the seemingly meaningless adventures in life" (x). Of course, I know that because it's in the introduction written by Nabokov--which reminds me, I also know that I really enjoy Nabokov's introductions to his own books, never lacking a shot or two at Freud/a psychoanalytic approach to the work.
Not a great deal happens in the novel. I was about to classify it as a bildungsroman but realized it is lacking the key criterion: the character has to demonstrate psychological/moral growth. Martin does not. Not at all. He is a Romantic at the outset and remains a Romantic as he sets off on his final Romantic journey. Is there a term for a coming-of-age story wherein the protagonist doesn’t so much “come-of-age” as he does…well…simply age?
Martin has a poetic sensibility, a transcendentalist spirit, an ability to experience the sublime amidst the mundane. For example, an evening outdoors might suddenly elicit in him “an unbearable intensification of all his senses, a magical and demanding impulse, the presence of something for which alone it was worth living" (20). Of course, this feeling is fleeting, for were it not, it would not be sublime. Martin realizes "how very, very hard it was to capture happiness" (47-8). This leads him romanticize things. Things like the past, the present, the future. To say he is imaginative is a bit of an understatement: not only does he often ignore reality—like the central plot point of his chasing a girl who clearly has no interest in him—but he goes so far as to construct his own reality—like climax through conclusion of his self-prescribed mission. In this, I could not agree more with Nabokov’s above assessment of the sole purpose of the book. If that is the purpose, then it succeeds marvelously.
However, it is difficult not to question that purpose. Yes, I am envious of Martin’s sensitive nature, his ability to seemingly experience things more deeply, more profoundly, to be touched by the truly simple pleasures of life. Nevertheless, I feel that any reader must question whether this is ultimately a positive trait or fatal flaw for young Martin. For even Martin “was made aware again and again of the presence of some malevolent force obstinately trying to convince him that life was not at all the happy easy thing he had imagined” (102). That force is reality. The reality that to enter the adult world and have a stable income, one must work; the reality a girl’s constant and unquestionable rejections mean it’s time to move on; the reality that when adventurously climbing a cliff for no reason, one might fall to his death (no spoiler—that doesn’t actually happen); the reality that losing/risking one’s life for a purposeless journey devoid of any meaning or merit other than what one’s fanciful imagination has infused in it is just plain stupid. If Martin is to be envied for his Romantic sensibilities, then he is also to be pitied for his inability to escape from them. For when it becomes “hard to separate fancy from fact,” one must ask himself whether a more prosaic existence might be preferable (120).
Finally, I know that I just adore Nabokov's prose--it may bring me closer than anything else to the sublime.
Quotations I Liked:
"Thus in early childhood Martin failed to become familiar with something that subsequently, through the prismatic wave of memory, might have added an extra enchantment to his life" (4).
"It was then that Martin understood for the first time that human life flowed in zigzags" (9)
"She was twenty-five, her name was Alla, and she wrote poetry: three things, one would think, that were bound to make a woman fascinating" (29)
I left that whole "Review pending" thing up there for a reason, or, more accurately a sort of disclaimer. You see, as I'm reading I'm also generally putting together a very rough outline of my to-be-written review. Unfortunately, when I wait even a week to write said review and read even a single other book in that time, I completely forget what I would have written. So this is one of those: a review half-salvaged from the fog of a full week's passing.
What do I know? I know that the sole purpose of this book "lay in stressing the thrill and the glamour that [a] young expatriate finds in the most ordinary pleasures as well as in the seemingly meaningless adventures in life" (x). Of course, I know that because it's in the introduction written by Nabokov--which reminds me, I also know that I really enjoy Nabokov's introductions to his own books, never lacking a shot or two at Freud/a psychoanalytic approach to the work.
Not a great deal happens in the novel. I was about to classify it as a bildungsroman but realized it is lacking the key criterion: the character has to demonstrate psychological/moral growth. Martin does not. Not at all. He is a Romantic at the outset and remains a Romantic as he sets off on his final Romantic journey. Is there a term for a coming-of-age story wherein the protagonist doesn’t so much “come-of-age” as he does…well…simply age?
Martin has a poetic sensibility, a transcendentalist spirit, an ability to experience the sublime amidst the mundane. For example, an evening outdoors might suddenly elicit in him “an unbearable intensification of all his senses, a magical and demanding impulse, the presence of something for which alone it was worth living" (20). Of course, this feeling is fleeting, for were it not, it would not be sublime. Martin realizes "how very, very hard it was to capture happiness" (47-8). This leads him romanticize things. Things like the past, the present, the future. To say he is imaginative is a bit of an understatement: not only does he often ignore reality—like the central plot point of his chasing a girl who clearly has no interest in him—but he goes so far as to construct his own reality—like climax through conclusion of his self-prescribed mission. In this, I could not agree more with Nabokov’s above assessment of the sole purpose of the book. If that is the purpose, then it succeeds marvelously.
However, it is difficult not to question that purpose. Yes, I am envious of Martin’s sensitive nature, his ability to seemingly experience things more deeply, more profoundly, to be touched by the truly simple pleasures of life. Nevertheless, I feel that any reader must question whether this is ultimately a positive trait or fatal flaw for young Martin. For even Martin “was made aware again and again of the presence of some malevolent force obstinately trying to convince him that life was not at all the happy easy thing he had imagined” (102). That force is reality. The reality that to enter the adult world and have a stable income, one must work; the reality a girl’s constant and unquestionable rejections mean it’s time to move on; the reality that when adventurously climbing a cliff for no reason, one might fall to his death (no spoiler—that doesn’t actually happen); the reality that losing/risking one’s life for a purposeless journey devoid of any meaning or merit other than what one’s fanciful imagination has infused in it is just plain stupid. If Martin is to be envied for his Romantic sensibilities, then he is also to be pitied for his inability to escape from them. For when it becomes “hard to separate fancy from fact,” one must ask himself whether a more prosaic existence might be preferable (120).
Finally, I know that I just adore Nabokov's prose--it may bring me closer than anything else to the sublime.
Quotations I Liked:
"Thus in early childhood Martin failed to become familiar with something that subsequently, through the prismatic wave of memory, might have added an extra enchantment to his life" (4).
"It was then that Martin understood for the first time that human life flowed in zigzags" (9)
"She was twenty-five, her name was Alla, and she wrote poetry: three things, one would think, that were bound to make a woman fascinating" (29)
June 21, 2013
So right, this is a minor work. Transitional, you might even say. Young Nabokov is figuring out how to structure a novel from an entire life - rather than a heightened episode - without shorting his substantial gifts for compression, velocity, and patterning. The initial chapters have a herky-jerk momentum, but the novel eventually finds its footing and races toward an astonishing metaphysical climax that frames all the previous material in a new light.
This is definitely *not* for newcomers or those only mildly invested in Nabokov. It's slightly meandering in some places, uncharacteristically didactic in others, and occasionally too broad in its effects. But I still found it far more electrifying than the work of acolyte Martin Amis, whose London Fields continues to be a relative slog compared to Nabokov's fleet-footed prose, indelible dilations of detail, and swift changes of scenery. At a fraction the length, Glory packs in exotic cruises, international espionage, affairs between married women and young boys, wartime tragedy, nighttime train journeys, ruthless flirts, concealed identities, mysterious mountain paths, bloody bare knuckle boxing, lovesick machinations, and lecherous professors. Not to mention a good chunk of London itself.
VN himself sez: "After all but lapsing into false exoticism or commonplace comedy, it soars to heights of purity and melancholy that I only attained much later in Ada."
Now off to read what Brian Boyd has to say about it....
This is definitely *not* for newcomers or those only mildly invested in Nabokov. It's slightly meandering in some places, uncharacteristically didactic in others, and occasionally too broad in its effects. But I still found it far more electrifying than the work of acolyte Martin Amis, whose London Fields continues to be a relative slog compared to Nabokov's fleet-footed prose, indelible dilations of detail, and swift changes of scenery. At a fraction the length, Glory packs in exotic cruises, international espionage, affairs between married women and young boys, wartime tragedy, nighttime train journeys, ruthless flirts, concealed identities, mysterious mountain paths, bloody bare knuckle boxing, lovesick machinations, and lecherous professors. Not to mention a good chunk of London itself.
VN himself sez: "After all but lapsing into false exoticism or commonplace comedy, it soars to heights of purity and melancholy that I only attained much later in Ada."
Now off to read what Brian Boyd has to say about it....
May 22, 2016
‘Glory’ slightly precedes Nabokov’s ‘golden period’ (stretching from ‘Despair’ in 1937 to ‘Pale Fire’ in 1962), a period iridescent with with the glow of Nabokov’s genius, but whose brightness and beauty flickers only intermittently in comparison to the incomparable beauty of his greatest works.
The story follows Martin Edelweiss, a sensitive yet strange young man, and his experiences as an emigre firstly in Cambridge and later in Berlin and various other locations around Europe. Nabokov himself admitted that it was some time before he grew used to acclimatised America and was able to coherently recreate it within his novels, and in many ways ‘Glory’ reads like an incipient writer trying to make sense of and recreate the world around him-and for a writer as original as Nabokov this leads to many beautiful passages and quotes;
“The crickets kept crepitating; from time to time came a sweet whiff of burning juniper, and above a black alpestrine steppe, above the silken sea, the enormous, all engulfing sky, dove gray with stars, made one’s head spin, and suddenly Martin again experienced a feeling he had known on more than one occasion as a child: an unbearable intensification of all his senses, a magical and demanding impulse, the presence of something for which alone it was worth living.”
Indeed it is Nabokov’s ability to take delight in the world, in its limitless sounds and smells, the child-like glee of delighting in every moment which sets him above other writers-he will never be an explore of human psychology like Proust, but instead Nabokov explores the miracle of consciousness. The secondary characters within the novel are perhaps the most ‘human’ (in the positive sense) of all Nabokov’s novels. There are no outright brutes or rogues-Martin himself may often display a kind of aloofness which we often see in Nabokov’s male protagonists (with the exception of Pnin) but is essentially a kind, if high individualistic, character. The coquettish Sonia can be seen as being somewhat heartless and Martin’s friend, Darwin, descends into a vague kind of vapidity by the end of the novel, yet one senses that it is the peripheral characters, such as the Russophile Archibald Moon, or Martin’s mother Sofia, whose inner lives make the greatest impression on the reader. However, Nabokov’s cruel characters often serve a moral purpose, like Humber or Hermann, are Nabokov’s attempts to upend the reader via cruel and capricious characters whose outward ‘charms’ often mask the monstrous personality lurking within-the ‘moral’ of Glory lies within Martin’s desire to achieve a great ‘deed’, something which will allow him to transcend the everyday and achieve something glorious.
The story follows Martin Edelweiss, a sensitive yet strange young man, and his experiences as an emigre firstly in Cambridge and later in Berlin and various other locations around Europe. Nabokov himself admitted that it was some time before he grew used to acclimatised America and was able to coherently recreate it within his novels, and in many ways ‘Glory’ reads like an incipient writer trying to make sense of and recreate the world around him-and for a writer as original as Nabokov this leads to many beautiful passages and quotes;
“The crickets kept crepitating; from time to time came a sweet whiff of burning juniper, and above a black alpestrine steppe, above the silken sea, the enormous, all engulfing sky, dove gray with stars, made one’s head spin, and suddenly Martin again experienced a feeling he had known on more than one occasion as a child: an unbearable intensification of all his senses, a magical and demanding impulse, the presence of something for which alone it was worth living.”
Indeed it is Nabokov’s ability to take delight in the world, in its limitless sounds and smells, the child-like glee of delighting in every moment which sets him above other writers-he will never be an explore of human psychology like Proust, but instead Nabokov explores the miracle of consciousness. The secondary characters within the novel are perhaps the most ‘human’ (in the positive sense) of all Nabokov’s novels. There are no outright brutes or rogues-Martin himself may often display a kind of aloofness which we often see in Nabokov’s male protagonists (with the exception of Pnin) but is essentially a kind, if high individualistic, character. The coquettish Sonia can be seen as being somewhat heartless and Martin’s friend, Darwin, descends into a vague kind of vapidity by the end of the novel, yet one senses that it is the peripheral characters, such as the Russophile Archibald Moon, or Martin’s mother Sofia, whose inner lives make the greatest impression on the reader. However, Nabokov’s cruel characters often serve a moral purpose, like Humber or Hermann, are Nabokov’s attempts to upend the reader via cruel and capricious characters whose outward ‘charms’ often mask the monstrous personality lurking within-the ‘moral’ of Glory lies within Martin’s desire to achieve a great ‘deed’, something which will allow him to transcend the everyday and achieve something glorious.
October 13, 2012
I was reading Glory on the Heathrow to Cambridge bus sometime in 1999, and the guy sitting on the other side of the aisle introduced himself. He was in the middle of writing a PhD on Nabokov and had recently read it himself. We talked about Glory for a few minutes (as far as I can recall, we agreed that it was one of the least interesting of the Master's novels), and then we got into Nabokov in general. I said I often wished that I knew more than very basic Russian when I read him, since even that much was generally enough to show I was missing jokes and allusions. I assumed he must be pretty good.
No, said the guy, he didn't know any Russian. Well, I was surprised, but not nearly as surprised as I was when he almost immediately afterwards revealed that he didn't know French either.
How can you decide you're writing on PhD on Nabokov without knowing French or Russian? To me, it sounded like deciding to write a PhD on General Relativity without knowing calculus, but probably I'm just displaying my ignorance here.
No, said the guy, he didn't know any Russian. Well, I was surprised, but not nearly as surprised as I was when he almost immediately afterwards revealed that he didn't know French either.
How can you decide you're writing on PhD on Nabokov without knowing French or Russian? To me, it sounded like deciding to write a PhD on General Relativity without knowing calculus, but probably I'm just displaying my ignorance here.
April 3, 2016
Young White Russian emigre Martin Edelweiss is the sensitive and self-righteous protagonist of one of Vladimir Nabokov's least known and least-read novels, but where Glory is most glorious is in its peerless writing and not so much in its meandering, trifling tale of confused youth.
Martin Edelweiss is a cosmopolitan bastard child of sorts; someone Oscar Wilde might have pegged as "young enough to know everything," a sensitive but insufferable little prig, modeled autobiographically via Nabokov himself, a fact which -- in light of some of the interviews I've read by the author -- is not surprising. If I were to read his real autobiography, Speak, Memory, I would better ascertain the parallels to this novel, but, alas, that is not presently in the offing.
At first, we feel for Martin because of the early loss of his father, his hypersensitivity as a child, his forced migration from his homeland due to the Russian Revolution. Born into privilege, he enjoys the benefits of his class, trips throughout Europe and an education at Cambridge. Despite a longing for his homeland, he clearly fancies the chameleon possibilities of being a free-floating cosmopolitan, of being Russian, English, Swiss, French, or German, such as his dandy whims dictate.
Nabokov starts the novel beautifully by placing young Martin in the context of familial aristocratic expectations. He is part of a long and glorious line, and in such a milieu is expected to carry on the traditions. Nabby evokes this in a loving and scintillating description of a vintage photo album highlighting the family's legendary grandfather; the mummified images of him caught in timeless stasis, in stiff Prussian-like splendor, sure of himself and his world, not bothered by any apparent self-awareness.
Almost right away we feel that Martin will rebel against this, yet at the same time realize his sense of guilt, or at least a sense of annoyance, at being bound to these expectations without having any intention of matching them. He clearly does admire the refined things, even the ancient rigid codes of conduct he is bound to break. It is an inevitable conflict in his Russian soul.
It is Martin's deep devotion and love for his mother that drives this conflict more than anything. Any desire that he would have to follow a preordained aristocratic path -- to make his own mark while safely replicating lives already lived -- stems clearly from his fear of disappointing his mother and her expectations.
When Martin befriends a married free-spirited artist/poet named Alla on a ship outbound from Russia, his first unrequited love foreshadows another that will later haunt him throughout the novel. That elusive desire becomes reserved for Sonia, the 16-year-old slightly common daughter of Russian emigres in London. Her flighty nonchalance, along with her involvement with others in Martin's Cambridge circle drives him to distraction.
Along the way, Nabby takes his time in ample descriptions of flora and fauna, tennis games, how a peasant girl shakes a dirty rug, what the lights of Molignac look like from a moving train, how a girl's eyelash on a cheek turns an imperfection into something perfect. It is writing that will make you swoon, or yawn, or both.
My favorite parts of the book involved Martin's hopeless attempts to win Sonia's heart, as well as his descriptions of certain interesting characters, such as the Russian scholar, Archibald Moon, a professor whose amber-encrusted idea of Russia eventually drives Martin away, as does the professor's apparent gayness, only slightly subtly hinted at by Nabokov.
As in Pnin, and to some degree, Lolita, Nabokov expertly essays a reverence for the academic life, as it once existed.
Martin's sense of ennui demands a corrective that will be channeled into a youthful folly, an ill-advised adventure, and that is where, he believes, a true glory will define his life and his sense of worth and purpose. This is foreshadowed during a Swiss mountain hike, when he nearly slides off a cliff but is saved by a fortuitous grasp. Instead of cherishing this adventure as manly accomplishment, he resents it -- for the wrong reasons. And because of this, he becomes fixated on pursuing a death-dealing adventure that is purposefully sought, rather than accidental in nature.
This is one of the many blind spots in the youthful Martin. He did not seem to grasp that hiking up a mountain was the risk. The mere doing of it.
This leads the novel toward a very ambiguous ending. Clearly Martin achieves his goal, but we are given very little detail of its full outcome. In doing this, Nabokov pulls a risky narrative maneuver after having concentrated on Martin and his state of mind for 99 percent of the novel, wrenching the story to the perspective of the family and friends in his circle, who are left just as clueless about his fate as we are. Although not quite the same, this reminded me of the baffled mourners in Akira Kurosawa's Ikiru, fruitlessly trying to guess at the motivations of their lost compadre.
In this conclusion, Nabby is uncompromising, and many readers will either respect this narrative gamble or hate it. I was not sold by it, but understand his motivation in trying it.
What struck me most about Martin was his blind spots, more than his knowledge and his wise insights. In crafting him, it is apparent that Nabokov did, too, although, at times, I wondered if the author shared some of those same gaps.
In Martin Edelweiss, we have the kind of pampered, sensitive aristocratic youth whose poetic soul is refined and cultivated enough to feel and drink in the beauty of a photograph or a sunset or the smells of a seashore, but who is absolutely clueless to the suffering that led to the Revolution that caused his family's flight from Russia. Indeed, nowhere in the book does the coddled Martin ever exhibit any political awareness, apart from some vague outrage mainly based on the exile of his family. And at the end, when he stages a political act, it is not done to avenge any specific outrage against the Russian aristocratic class, but is simply a poorly conceived personal act of validation. It seems like something on his bucket list, rather than something arising from true outrage or passion or an informed sense of justice. But this may be the point. Martin is young.
The book was problematic for me, and, I will admit, a bit of a slog at times. But the good parts, and the writing, carried me through. I would recommend it to those who have tackled Nabby's main corpus, rather than to those who are engaging him for the first time.
(KevinR@Ky, 2016)
Martin Edelweiss is a cosmopolitan bastard child of sorts; someone Oscar Wilde might have pegged as "young enough to know everything," a sensitive but insufferable little prig, modeled autobiographically via Nabokov himself, a fact which -- in light of some of the interviews I've read by the author -- is not surprising. If I were to read his real autobiography, Speak, Memory, I would better ascertain the parallels to this novel, but, alas, that is not presently in the offing.
At first, we feel for Martin because of the early loss of his father, his hypersensitivity as a child, his forced migration from his homeland due to the Russian Revolution. Born into privilege, he enjoys the benefits of his class, trips throughout Europe and an education at Cambridge. Despite a longing for his homeland, he clearly fancies the chameleon possibilities of being a free-floating cosmopolitan, of being Russian, English, Swiss, French, or German, such as his dandy whims dictate.
Nabokov starts the novel beautifully by placing young Martin in the context of familial aristocratic expectations. He is part of a long and glorious line, and in such a milieu is expected to carry on the traditions. Nabby evokes this in a loving and scintillating description of a vintage photo album highlighting the family's legendary grandfather; the mummified images of him caught in timeless stasis, in stiff Prussian-like splendor, sure of himself and his world, not bothered by any apparent self-awareness.
Almost right away we feel that Martin will rebel against this, yet at the same time realize his sense of guilt, or at least a sense of annoyance, at being bound to these expectations without having any intention of matching them. He clearly does admire the refined things, even the ancient rigid codes of conduct he is bound to break. It is an inevitable conflict in his Russian soul.
It is Martin's deep devotion and love for his mother that drives this conflict more than anything. Any desire that he would have to follow a preordained aristocratic path -- to make his own mark while safely replicating lives already lived -- stems clearly from his fear of disappointing his mother and her expectations.
When Martin befriends a married free-spirited artist/poet named Alla on a ship outbound from Russia, his first unrequited love foreshadows another that will later haunt him throughout the novel. That elusive desire becomes reserved for Sonia, the 16-year-old slightly common daughter of Russian emigres in London. Her flighty nonchalance, along with her involvement with others in Martin's Cambridge circle drives him to distraction.
Along the way, Nabby takes his time in ample descriptions of flora and fauna, tennis games, how a peasant girl shakes a dirty rug, what the lights of Molignac look like from a moving train, how a girl's eyelash on a cheek turns an imperfection into something perfect. It is writing that will make you swoon, or yawn, or both.
My favorite parts of the book involved Martin's hopeless attempts to win Sonia's heart, as well as his descriptions of certain interesting characters, such as the Russian scholar, Archibald Moon, a professor whose amber-encrusted idea of Russia eventually drives Martin away, as does the professor's apparent gayness, only slightly subtly hinted at by Nabokov.
As in Pnin, and to some degree, Lolita, Nabokov expertly essays a reverence for the academic life, as it once existed.
Martin's sense of ennui demands a corrective that will be channeled into a youthful folly, an ill-advised adventure, and that is where, he believes, a true glory will define his life and his sense of worth and purpose. This is foreshadowed during a Swiss mountain hike, when he nearly slides off a cliff but is saved by a fortuitous grasp. Instead of cherishing this adventure as manly accomplishment, he resents it -- for the wrong reasons. And because of this, he becomes fixated on pursuing a death-dealing adventure that is purposefully sought, rather than accidental in nature.
This is one of the many blind spots in the youthful Martin. He did not seem to grasp that hiking up a mountain was the risk. The mere doing of it.
This leads the novel toward a very ambiguous ending. Clearly Martin achieves his goal, but we are given very little detail of its full outcome. In doing this, Nabokov pulls a risky narrative maneuver after having concentrated on Martin and his state of mind for 99 percent of the novel, wrenching the story to the perspective of the family and friends in his circle, who are left just as clueless about his fate as we are. Although not quite the same, this reminded me of the baffled mourners in Akira Kurosawa's Ikiru, fruitlessly trying to guess at the motivations of their lost compadre.
In this conclusion, Nabby is uncompromising, and many readers will either respect this narrative gamble or hate it. I was not sold by it, but understand his motivation in trying it.
What struck me most about Martin was his blind spots, more than his knowledge and his wise insights. In crafting him, it is apparent that Nabokov did, too, although, at times, I wondered if the author shared some of those same gaps.
In Martin Edelweiss, we have the kind of pampered, sensitive aristocratic youth whose poetic soul is refined and cultivated enough to feel and drink in the beauty of a photograph or a sunset or the smells of a seashore, but who is absolutely clueless to the suffering that led to the Revolution that caused his family's flight from Russia. Indeed, nowhere in the book does the coddled Martin ever exhibit any political awareness, apart from some vague outrage mainly based on the exile of his family. And at the end, when he stages a political act, it is not done to avenge any specific outrage against the Russian aristocratic class, but is simply a poorly conceived personal act of validation. It seems like something on his bucket list, rather than something arising from true outrage or passion or an informed sense of justice. But this may be the point. Martin is young.
The book was problematic for me, and, I will admit, a bit of a slog at times. But the good parts, and the writing, carried me through. I would recommend it to those who have tackled Nabby's main corpus, rather than to those who are engaging him for the first time.
(KevinR@Ky, 2016)
November 14, 2023
Magnifica recensione per un romanzo letto, probabilmente, nel momento sbagliato e che non è riuscito ad appassionarmi tanto quanto Lolita e, soprattutto, La difesa di Lužin.
October 17, 2016
A long time ago Ivan, a dear stranger who has a lovely blog - Nabokolia, asked me to write a small piece on Nabokov. Being a master procrastinator it took me ages to finally finish this little piece of, let’s say, gentle lunacy. Job, life and other trivia interfered and then today, I paused between three deadlines and decided to finish what I had meant to do more than two years ago.
Where do I begin? “In Luga? Kaluga? Ladoga? Where, when?” I have devoured fiendishly, ravenously nearly all his works. I have already written treacly, trembling reviews for many. I have swooned and re-swooned in a loop over Ada, over Speak Memory. My spine has tingled over Pale Fire and Bend Sinister, and I have been lost in a mist of exquisite prose in Look at the Harlequins, Sounds, Real Life of Sebastian Knight and Transparent Things. I can go on….
Glory – One of Nabokov’s transcendent little works did not do any of the above - but it touched the silkiest cobwebs of my madness – releasing a flock of hummingbirds.
This is not my favourite Nabokov. It didn’t have quite the ‘gripping’ element that you find in Lolita. But there was something about Glory, something like a languid blossoming, a fragrant tenderness of things lost. As you seep slowly into the story (you have to be a patient reader) you discover the sweetest shades of pain, the fragile, breakable things that can reside in a rare human heart and the mad, poignant beauty of an absurdly and determinedly held ideal.
Through the iridescent moth-wing eyes of Martin Edelweiss we see his world that purls by like a lyrical aside. He is gently obsessed with a watercolour image of winding path through a dense forest which used to hang near his bed as a child. As he grows up, the dream of the forest path becomes a motif, an abstract longing. It comes to represent his home, his Russia from where he had to flee during the revolution, it becomes his dream escape, his dreamscape. Throughout the book we encounter several not-so-rememberable characters but, seen through the compassionate, wondering eyes of Edelweiss, they become unique.
What makes this book so special is how it ends. Or, better put, how the book simply trails away –like a butterfly disappearing into an undergrowth - leaving the reader with a catch in her breath.
Where do I begin? “In Luga? Kaluga? Ladoga? Where, when?” I have devoured fiendishly, ravenously nearly all his works. I have already written treacly, trembling reviews for many. I have swooned and re-swooned in a loop over Ada, over Speak Memory. My spine has tingled over Pale Fire and Bend Sinister, and I have been lost in a mist of exquisite prose in Look at the Harlequins, Sounds, Real Life of Sebastian Knight and Transparent Things. I can go on….
Glory – One of Nabokov’s transcendent little works did not do any of the above - but it touched the silkiest cobwebs of my madness – releasing a flock of hummingbirds.
This is not my favourite Nabokov. It didn’t have quite the ‘gripping’ element that you find in Lolita. But there was something about Glory, something like a languid blossoming, a fragrant tenderness of things lost. As you seep slowly into the story (you have to be a patient reader) you discover the sweetest shades of pain, the fragile, breakable things that can reside in a rare human heart and the mad, poignant beauty of an absurdly and determinedly held ideal.
Through the iridescent moth-wing eyes of Martin Edelweiss we see his world that purls by like a lyrical aside. He is gently obsessed with a watercolour image of winding path through a dense forest which used to hang near his bed as a child. As he grows up, the dream of the forest path becomes a motif, an abstract longing. It comes to represent his home, his Russia from where he had to flee during the revolution, it becomes his dream escape, his dreamscape. Throughout the book we encounter several not-so-rememberable characters but, seen through the compassionate, wondering eyes of Edelweiss, they become unique.
What makes this book so special is how it ends. Or, better put, how the book simply trails away –like a butterfly disappearing into an undergrowth - leaving the reader with a catch in her breath.
September 16, 2020
Amazingly, I found this novel (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glory_(...) more readable than his Despair (1966) (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Despair...) in which his lengthy narratives and an unthinkable plot related to his double Felix being shot, crying out incredibly and uttered a word [to verify from text] as part of an in-cold-blood plan mischievously designed by Hermann himself have more or less kept the reader unamused.
To continue . . .
To continue . . .
February 28, 2021
Te amo Nabokov
February 22, 2021
Il titolo originario di questo romanzo, uno dei primi, quando ancora Nabokov scriveva in russo, era “Podvig”, traducibile più come impresa valorosa, prodezza, piuttosto che gloria in sé.
Ma tutto sommato anche ”La gloria” si adatta egregiamente alla storia di Martin.
Orfano di padre, esule della rivoluzione bolscevica emigrato in Svizzera con la madre, poi studente di Cambridge senza particolari aspirazioni né talenti, Martin è un sognatore dall’immaginazione avida e sfrenata. È giovane e quindi afflitto dal desiderio inestinguibile di fare colpo, di ammaliare gli altri.
Per questa ragione racconta spesso frottole, infarcisce la propria vita di aneddoti avventurosi arrivando perfino a crederli veri. Si invaghisce di una civetta capricciosa, Sonja, che lo rifiuta più volte. Si incaponisce nel voler iniziare un duello con il suo migliore amico. E si espone a situazioni rischiose e potenzialmente fatali senza un valido motivo. Come se avesse sempre qualcosa da dimostrare. O come se il suo rapporto con la realtà non fosse tanto saldo da fargli capire quando è ora di smettere di fantasticare.
Qua dentro si percepisce tutta la giovinezza di Nabokov. Mancano ancora più di vent’anni a “Lolita” e la nostalgia della Russia trasuda da ogni anfratto. Ma che scrittura meravigliosa che padroneggiava già all’epoca! Così elegante, ricca, suggestiva. Un libro di atmosfere malinconiche e stupefacenti panoramiche naturalistiche. Certo, tra un picco di lirismo e l’altro ci si sorprende a sbadigliare un poco, perché qua non succede granché. A parte nell’ultima manciata di pagine, quelle sì che hanno un ritmo incalzante!
Eppure, quel finale mi ha lasciata anche un po’ stranita. Mi ero così abituata a stare nella mente di Martin che non mi aspettavo di vedermelo sparire così davanti agli occhi come il risultato di un gioco di prestigio. Non ne sono rimasta del tutto soddisfatta.
Diciamolo subito: non credo sia il punto migliore da cui partire con Nabokov. Ma se già siete rimasti incantati dalla sua scrittura e vi siete bruciati qualche titolo più conosciuto, questo potrebbe risultarvi affascinante.
3 stelline e mezzo.
Ma tutto sommato anche ”La gloria” si adatta egregiamente alla storia di Martin.
Orfano di padre, esule della rivoluzione bolscevica emigrato in Svizzera con la madre, poi studente di Cambridge senza particolari aspirazioni né talenti, Martin è un sognatore dall’immaginazione avida e sfrenata. È giovane e quindi afflitto dal desiderio inestinguibile di fare colpo, di ammaliare gli altri.
Per questa ragione racconta spesso frottole, infarcisce la propria vita di aneddoti avventurosi arrivando perfino a crederli veri. Si invaghisce di una civetta capricciosa, Sonja, che lo rifiuta più volte. Si incaponisce nel voler iniziare un duello con il suo migliore amico. E si espone a situazioni rischiose e potenzialmente fatali senza un valido motivo. Come se avesse sempre qualcosa da dimostrare. O come se il suo rapporto con la realtà non fosse tanto saldo da fargli capire quando è ora di smettere di fantasticare.
Qua dentro si percepisce tutta la giovinezza di Nabokov. Mancano ancora più di vent’anni a “Lolita” e la nostalgia della Russia trasuda da ogni anfratto. Ma che scrittura meravigliosa che padroneggiava già all’epoca! Così elegante, ricca, suggestiva. Un libro di atmosfere malinconiche e stupefacenti panoramiche naturalistiche. Certo, tra un picco di lirismo e l’altro ci si sorprende a sbadigliare un poco, perché qua non succede granché. A parte nell’ultima manciata di pagine, quelle sì che hanno un ritmo incalzante!
Eppure, quel finale mi ha lasciata anche un po’ stranita. Mi ero così abituata a stare nella mente di Martin che non mi aspettavo di vedermelo sparire così davanti agli occhi come il risultato di un gioco di prestigio. Non ne sono rimasta del tutto soddisfatta.
Diciamolo subito: non credo sia il punto migliore da cui partire con Nabokov. Ma se già siete rimasti incantati dalla sua scrittura e vi siete bruciati qualche titolo più conosciuto, questo potrebbe risultarvi affascinante.
3 stelline e mezzo.
March 21, 2024
3.5 stars. A short, charming, clever, delightful coming of age novel about Martin and the uncertainty of his future and his romances with girls. Set in the 1920s in Berlin, Cambridge and Switzerland. Martin’s university days, family life and financial woes find him uncertain about himself and his future.
Here are two examples of the author’s writing style:
‘Human thought, flying on the trapezes of the star-filled universe, with mathematics stretched beneath, was like an acrobat working with a net but suddenly noticing that in reality there is no net.’
‘Lighted advertisements went running up dark red facades and dissipating again. He would pass girls; he would turn to look, but the prettier the face, the harder it was to take the plunge.’
This book was first published in Russian in 1930.
Here are two examples of the author’s writing style:
‘Human thought, flying on the trapezes of the star-filled universe, with mathematics stretched beneath, was like an acrobat working with a net but suddenly noticing that in reality there is no net.’
‘Lighted advertisements went running up dark red facades and dissipating again. He would pass girls; he would turn to look, but the prettier the face, the harder it was to take the plunge.’
This book was first published in Russian in 1930.
June 17, 2017
Hasta sus libros menores son obras mayores. Hay que leer a Nabokov
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September 14, 2017
Nabokov geniale, ma anche questo si sapeva già. Solo per veri intenditori di letteratura. Consiglio.
October 19, 2012
Glory is the comic/tragic tale of a young man whose fantasies of heroism come to replace reality and eventually lead to his downfall. The theme is simple, but because the novel is set between WWI and WWII, Glory might be best described as a somewhat cynical allegory about the plight of the "Lost Generation"--those ex-patriots who retreated to Paris during the 20s and 30s. Martin, our protagonist, while not an American in Paris, most certainly is lost. Having been forced into exile during the Russian Revolution, Martin, who is a highly Europeanized hybrid, finds himself adrift in Europe, wandering from Switzerland, to England, to Germany in an aimless pursuit of what to do with himself. Eventually he falls in love with the sulky, dark-eyed temptress, Sonia. But that, of course, solves nothing. Martin does not know who he is, where he has come from, or where he is going. Falling in love merely heightens his anomie.
If this sounds somewhat uninspiring as a plot, you are right! There is very little action of note, and even less character development (which, in any event, Nabokov disdained). The appeal of this book is the sheer force of Nabokov's gorgeous writing. His exquisite attention to detail, his amazing insights into states of mind set him above all other writers. Perhaps you think I am overstating, but who else can take you to a river in Cambridge, make you smell the air, see the sky, feel as Martin feels, so deftly, so economically and with such great sensitivity? Nabokov, a synthaesthete, has a chef's awareness of how to spice his novels. A dash of this, a hint of that - he knows which sensations to describe in order to create a harmonious whole. There are passages in this book which I read and re-read, astounded by the clarity, the precision, the sheer beauty of Nabokov's prose.
Glory is a literary delicacy, best savored slowly. Take your time consuming it, and you will be thoroughly satisfied.
If this sounds somewhat uninspiring as a plot, you are right! There is very little action of note, and even less character development (which, in any event, Nabokov disdained). The appeal of this book is the sheer force of Nabokov's gorgeous writing. His exquisite attention to detail, his amazing insights into states of mind set him above all other writers. Perhaps you think I am overstating, but who else can take you to a river in Cambridge, make you smell the air, see the sky, feel as Martin feels, so deftly, so economically and with such great sensitivity? Nabokov, a synthaesthete, has a chef's awareness of how to spice his novels. A dash of this, a hint of that - he knows which sensations to describe in order to create a harmonious whole. There are passages in this book which I read and re-read, astounded by the clarity, the precision, the sheer beauty of Nabokov's prose.
Glory is a literary delicacy, best savored slowly. Take your time consuming it, and you will be thoroughly satisfied.
September 19, 2020
mi-a plăcut, o lectură lejeră și rapidă. mi-a fost dor de nabokov și mă bucur că am ajuns la această carte în 2020.
despre poveste, sincer, nu aș putea să spun exact ce s-a întâmplat în final și care a fost scopul cărții, asta dacă a avut vreun scop.
urmărește evoluția lui Martin, un tânăr oarecum laș, care își promite să acționeze cum ar face-o un om curajos. totodată, Martin înflorește evenimentele pe care le trăiește, e destul de disperat după femei (până în punctul în care devine enervant, i get it you have a dicc which you cannot control, anything else?), lucru care se mai potolește în a 2-a jumătate a cărții.
finalul, îl înțeleg și în același timp m-a lăsat 'meh'. necesar pentru evoluția personajului, irelevant pentru cititor??
deși mi-a plăcut și experiența, per total, a fost decentă, nu îi pot da mai mult de 3 stele, întrucât nu e o lectură memorabilă.
cert e că abia aștept să mai citesc nabokov (scriitura lui e GENIALĂ!!! sunt niște pasaje, multe de altfel, pe care le-am subliniat doar pentru că sună atât de bine).
cel mai bine însumează cartea următorul citat: 'Bine scris, face plăcere. Dar nimic mai mult. Cititorul este invitat să admire și asta-i tot. Nu este chemat nicăieri. După lectură, în inima lui nu s-a schimbat nimic.'
despre poveste, sincer, nu aș putea să spun exact ce s-a întâmplat în final și care a fost scopul cărții, asta dacă a avut vreun scop.
urmărește evoluția lui Martin, un tânăr oarecum laș, care își promite să acționeze cum ar face-o un om curajos. totodată, Martin înflorește evenimentele pe care le trăiește, e destul de disperat după femei (până în punctul în care devine enervant, i get it you have a dicc which you cannot control, anything else?), lucru care se mai potolește în a 2-a jumătate a cărții.
finalul, îl înțeleg și în același timp m-a lăsat 'meh'. necesar pentru evoluția personajului, irelevant pentru cititor??
deși mi-a plăcut și experiența, per total, a fost decentă, nu îi pot da mai mult de 3 stele, întrucât nu e o lectură memorabilă.
cert e că abia aștept să mai citesc nabokov (scriitura lui e GENIALĂ!!! sunt niște pasaje, multe de altfel, pe care le-am subliniat doar pentru că sună atât de bine).
cel mai bine însumează cartea următorul citat: 'Bine scris, face plăcere. Dar nimic mai mult. Cititorul este invitat să admire și asta-i tot. Nu este chemat nicăieri. După lectură, în inima lui nu s-a schimbat nimic.'
August 17, 2020
Който не е чел Набоков, не е опитал вкуса на литературата.
November 30, 2018
De los años rusos de Nabokov, deliciosa.
September 29, 2024
Glory by Vladimir Nabokov
The more I read Nabokov, the more I get to understand his style--a descriptive word flow, seldomly stopping on its way to pick up a piece of dialogue. When it does, it consumes the dialogue, traps it within an enormous block of adjectives and nouns, hardly ever allowing it to exist separately. I have no problem with it, as long as the content remains entertaining. Unfortunately, that can't be said about Glory.
Yeah, I'm far from being a fan of this one. After reading the synopsis, I knew I wouldn't be excited. The only question picking my interest was "how would Nabokov describe the Soviet Russia from the inside?" After all, previously he only presented views of the émigrés. And when he did include the actual citizens of USSR, their data was concise with little to no information. Alas, the promised illegal crossing happens right at the very end of the book, in the background, without any details or presented consequences.
I see what Nabokov was trying to do here. Interweaving his own biography with the one of a fictional hero, he created the story of a lost man, whose Russian spirit couldn't rest in the foreign lands, similar to the actual émigrés of that age. A dreamer by nature, Martyn spent his life in a state of stagnation, unable to find any solid purpose. His only desire aimed at proving himself to others, showing off his courage to those who didn't really care. The illegal crossing of USSR border was his grand project, an apogee of a sort, the manifestation of a "dream" possessed but not realized by many émigrés--to go back home, to Russia.
I feel like many modern émigrés might relate to this book. To me, though, it was mostly boring--a constant yapping on many things I didn't find interesting. Surely, I noticed Nabokov's attempts to present Martyn as a character, to explain his inner self and why was it so, and yet I received no satisfaction out of it. The same attempts used in The Luzhin's Defense were brilliant, masterfully crafted to such a point where I didn't want to stop reading. Here, however, it was dragging, onerous, exhausting.
I guess, that's a kind of book I should reread later. I can feel there's more to it, but my current self fails to grasp it, to appreciate it for what it is. We'll see as the time goes on.
The more I read Nabokov, the more I get to understand his style--a descriptive word flow, seldomly stopping on its way to pick up a piece of dialogue. When it does, it consumes the dialogue, traps it within an enormous block of adjectives and nouns, hardly ever allowing it to exist separately. I have no problem with it, as long as the content remains entertaining. Unfortunately, that can't be said about Glory.
Yeah, I'm far from being a fan of this one. After reading the synopsis, I knew I wouldn't be excited. The only question picking my interest was "how would Nabokov describe the Soviet Russia from the inside?" After all, previously he only presented views of the émigrés. And when he did include the actual citizens of USSR, their data was concise with little to no information. Alas, the promised illegal crossing happens right at the very end of the book, in the background, without any details or presented consequences.
I see what Nabokov was trying to do here. Interweaving his own biography with the one of a fictional hero, he created the story of a lost man, whose Russian spirit couldn't rest in the foreign lands, similar to the actual émigrés of that age. A dreamer by nature, Martyn spent his life in a state of stagnation, unable to find any solid purpose. His only desire aimed at proving himself to others, showing off his courage to those who didn't really care. The illegal crossing of USSR border was his grand project, an apogee of a sort, the manifestation of a "dream" possessed but not realized by many émigrés--to go back home, to Russia.
I feel like many modern émigrés might relate to this book. To me, though, it was mostly boring--a constant yapping on many things I didn't find interesting. Surely, I noticed Nabokov's attempts to present Martyn as a character, to explain his inner self and why was it so, and yet I received no satisfaction out of it. The same attempts used in The Luzhin's Defense were brilliant, masterfully crafted to such a point where I didn't want to stop reading. Here, however, it was dragging, onerous, exhausting.
I guess, that's a kind of book I should reread later. I can feel there's more to it, but my current self fails to grasp it, to appreciate it for what it is. We'll see as the time goes on.
May 29, 2024
'The splendid autumn he had just seen in Switzerland somehow kept lingering in the background of his first Cambridge impressions. In the mornings a delicate haze would enshroud the Alps. A broken cluster of rowan berries lay in the middle of the road, whose ruts were filmed with micalike ice. Despite the absence of wind the bright-yellow birch leafage thinned out with every passing day, and the turquoise sky gazed through it with pensive gaiety.'
May 18, 2022
Podvig-fapta eroica este numele romanului in ruseste si autorul pare ca te indeamna sa o cauti si sa speri ca pana la final chiar isi va face aparitia.
O scriere frumoasa, lirica, intesata de descrieri. Actiunea sare usor prin timp, ceea ce a fost greu de inteles la inceput, de la un episod la altul, fara a se vedea neaparat puntea care le leaga.
Nabokov picteaza, fara indoiala, frumusetea molipsitoare, desavarsita a unei vieti singuratice: "Deodata auzi zgomotul racoros al unei ape si isi spuse ca nu exista muzica mai placuta in lume...stand pe-o piatra si ascultand susurul apei, Martin se desfata din plin cu sentimentul lipsei de griji a drumetului- el, pelegrinul pierdut, era singur in mijlocul acestei lumi fermecatoare, absolut indiferenta fata de persoana lui..."
O scriere frumoasa, lirica, intesata de descrieri. Actiunea sare usor prin timp, ceea ce a fost greu de inteles la inceput, de la un episod la altul, fara a se vedea neaparat puntea care le leaga.
Nabokov picteaza, fara indoiala, frumusetea molipsitoare, desavarsita a unei vieti singuratice: "Deodata auzi zgomotul racoros al unei ape si isi spuse ca nu exista muzica mai placuta in lume...stand pe-o piatra si ascultand susurul apei, Martin se desfata din plin cu sentimentul lipsei de griji a drumetului- el, pelegrinul pierdut, era singur in mijlocul acestei lumi fermecatoare, absolut indiferenta fata de persoana lui..."
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