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Mary
Mary is a gripping tale of youth, first love, and nostalgia--Nabokov's first novel. In a Berlin rooming house filled with an assortment of seriocomic Russian émigrés, Lev Ganin, a vigorous young officer poised between his past and his future, relives his first love affair. His memories of Mary are suffused with the freshness of youth and the idyllic ambience of pre-revolutionary Russia. In stark contrast is the decidedly unappealing boarder living in the room next to Ganin's, who, he discovers, is Mary's husband, temporarily separated from her by the Revolution but expecting her imminent arrival from Russia.
116 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1926
247 people are currently reading
8170 people want to read
About the author
Vladimir Nabokov
890 books14.9k 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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September 12, 2025
Nostalgia in reverse, the longing for yet another strange land, grew especially strong in spring.
It is the first full length book by Vladimir Nabokov that I read, and finished. I read a few poems and short stories by the famous author, but I did not read any of his novels, though I once picked Lolita but left it in-between; Mary was incidentally the debut novel of the author too. In his debut novel itself, the author manages to weave a tight prose which showcases his ample talents in open light. If prose can offer a pure sensual experience, then perhaps Nabokov would be regarded as the best exponent of such a blissful escapade. He once mentioned that he dreamed of turning his readers into spectators and how well his dream come true, his prose might appear to be challenging at first, perhaps demands multiple readings too, but all the obstacles vanish into thin air once you make a deep and profound association with it.
link: source
On the surface it might appear to be a simple story dealing with the fascination of Mary as if she is an elusive being from the universe of imagination of Ganin, the protagonist; perhaps a love-story but, deep down, it is a layered story which deals with memory, passion, and desires through a bleak portrait of émigré life and the vagaries associated with it. The reader is thrown in the sea of outstanding possibilities which starts with detailed investigation of a life carefully crafted over the feelings of passionate young love of teenage. The teenage love as we know, is like a calm, tranquil breeze of morning air which ruffles your hair and fills up your nostrils with a scent permeated out of petrichor rising form the soil partially bathed in the drops of dew, and such love opens up a new universe of unseen, unfathomed possibilities riding upon the ardent passions of youth. We see that the love of the youthful charm is examined to the greatest details so as to make you feel whether that love affair is a reality exist only in the mind of the protagonist or in the actual world.
The prose of Nabokov, as you expect, deals with the intricate details to the minute chunks of the surroundings so as to make you feel as if you are experiencing everything by sitting right beside the fully alive characters of his world, watching with bated breath the things unfolding one by one. The prose is poetic and lyrical with a restrained impact, infused deliberately by the deft pen and fertile mind of the author to give it a laidback effect. It is like everything, petty or silly (as if nothing superfluous here) contributes to the long-lasting impression the book may have on us. Though the prose deals with loss and nostalgia but it never really sends any sentiments of a tragedy.
What superficially appears to be a simple bittersweet love story with a daub of tragedy, is actually much more than that, it is essentially a detailed investigation of memory, our fascinations with our desires and our ineptitude to deal with them. Ganin comes out as a god, recreating his own world from the dark cervices of memory by one-by-one picking up each detail or item, intentionally slowing down the process to savour it in every minute detail as you do for people you love; Mary takes shape out of his controlled bouts of eternal recurrence of memories and images. He gets so absorbed in his expedition of bygone days that his senses become oblivious to time and the world around him. The life of his old Russian times is not only a reminiscence but it much more real and intense than the life lived by his shadow in Berlin.
Vladimir Nabokov writes with a very deeply felt and reflective prose which is full of poetic sensibilities. There are obvious traits of autobiographical elements through which he weaves an acute and probing examination of Russian émigré life based on his stint in Berlin and a love affair reflected through the amour of Mary and Ganin. However, it would be childish of us to reduce the novel to just an autobiographical story. It is layered and stratified depiction of nostalgia for past, which lies somewhere down the stream of time and memory of Russia, to be relived by the protagonist as if creating a new history amidst the picturesque prose taking the reader by scruff of neck through the vivid scenery of old Russia oozing with natural beauty. The author manages to portray the changing atmosphere and disposition of the world around the Russian émigrés living in the German pension amidst the fleeting moments of aesthetic and sensual delight. Overall, as we have noticed in the other works of Nabokov too, there is fascinating scuffle between the reality one creates in one’s mind based upon the experiences, memory, nostalgia and the reality exists in the physical world; and how does our protagonist react to this captivating dilemma is a treat to read.
link: source
John Updike mentioned that Nabokov writes prose the only way it should be written, that is ecstatically and when you read this slime beauty by the Russian master you actually realize what Updike meant by these words. The way he has transformed and influenced the language is second to none, his power of imagination makes him inimitable across world literature. Despite this being the first novel of Nabokov, we witness his gift of conveying sharp-cut, vivid visual images through his original and creative prose as if he is some sort of magician. As George Orwell used to maintain that writing is about getting rid of one's inner demons Nabokov mentions in the introduction to the English translation-“The beginner’s well-known propensity for obtruding upon his own privacy, by introducing himself, as vicar, into his first novel, owes less to the attraction of a ready made theme than to the relief of getting rid of oneself, before going on to better things.”
Where is the happiness, the sunshine, where are those thick skittles of wood which crashed and bounced so nicely, where is my bicycle with the low handlebars and the big gear? It seems there's a law which says that nothing ever vanishes, that matter is indestructible; therefore the chips from my skittles and the spokes of my bicycle still exist somewhere to this day. The pity of it is that I'll never find them again - never.
It is the first full length book by Vladimir Nabokov that I read, and finished. I read a few poems and short stories by the famous author, but I did not read any of his novels, though I once picked Lolita but left it in-between; Mary was incidentally the debut novel of the author too. In his debut novel itself, the author manages to weave a tight prose which showcases his ample talents in open light. If prose can offer a pure sensual experience, then perhaps Nabokov would be regarded as the best exponent of such a blissful escapade. He once mentioned that he dreamed of turning his readers into spectators and how well his dream come true, his prose might appear to be challenging at first, perhaps demands multiple readings too, but all the obstacles vanish into thin air once you make a deep and profound association with it.
link: source
On the surface it might appear to be a simple story dealing with the fascination of Mary as if she is an elusive being from the universe of imagination of Ganin, the protagonist; perhaps a love-story but, deep down, it is a layered story which deals with memory, passion, and desires through a bleak portrait of émigré life and the vagaries associated with it. The reader is thrown in the sea of outstanding possibilities which starts with detailed investigation of a life carefully crafted over the feelings of passionate young love of teenage. The teenage love as we know, is like a calm, tranquil breeze of morning air which ruffles your hair and fills up your nostrils with a scent permeated out of petrichor rising form the soil partially bathed in the drops of dew, and such love opens up a new universe of unseen, unfathomed possibilities riding upon the ardent passions of youth. We see that the love of the youthful charm is examined to the greatest details so as to make you feel whether that love affair is a reality exist only in the mind of the protagonist or in the actual world.
The prose of Nabokov, as you expect, deals with the intricate details to the minute chunks of the surroundings so as to make you feel as if you are experiencing everything by sitting right beside the fully alive characters of his world, watching with bated breath the things unfolding one by one. The prose is poetic and lyrical with a restrained impact, infused deliberately by the deft pen and fertile mind of the author to give it a laidback effect. It is like everything, petty or silly (as if nothing superfluous here) contributes to the long-lasting impression the book may have on us. Though the prose deals with loss and nostalgia but it never really sends any sentiments of a tragedy.
What superficially appears to be a simple bittersweet love story with a daub of tragedy, is actually much more than that, it is essentially a detailed investigation of memory, our fascinations with our desires and our ineptitude to deal with them. Ganin comes out as a god, recreating his own world from the dark cervices of memory by one-by-one picking up each detail or item, intentionally slowing down the process to savour it in every minute detail as you do for people you love; Mary takes shape out of his controlled bouts of eternal recurrence of memories and images. He gets so absorbed in his expedition of bygone days that his senses become oblivious to time and the world around him. The life of his old Russian times is not only a reminiscence but it much more real and intense than the life lived by his shadow in Berlin.
Vladimir Nabokov writes with a very deeply felt and reflective prose which is full of poetic sensibilities. There are obvious traits of autobiographical elements through which he weaves an acute and probing examination of Russian émigré life based on his stint in Berlin and a love affair reflected through the amour of Mary and Ganin. However, it would be childish of us to reduce the novel to just an autobiographical story. It is layered and stratified depiction of nostalgia for past, which lies somewhere down the stream of time and memory of Russia, to be relived by the protagonist as if creating a new history amidst the picturesque prose taking the reader by scruff of neck through the vivid scenery of old Russia oozing with natural beauty. The author manages to portray the changing atmosphere and disposition of the world around the Russian émigrés living in the German pension amidst the fleeting moments of aesthetic and sensual delight. Overall, as we have noticed in the other works of Nabokov too, there is fascinating scuffle between the reality one creates in one’s mind based upon the experiences, memory, nostalgia and the reality exists in the physical world; and how does our protagonist react to this captivating dilemma is a treat to read.
link: source
John Updike mentioned that Nabokov writes prose the only way it should be written, that is ecstatically and when you read this slime beauty by the Russian master you actually realize what Updike meant by these words. The way he has transformed and influenced the language is second to none, his power of imagination makes him inimitable across world literature. Despite this being the first novel of Nabokov, we witness his gift of conveying sharp-cut, vivid visual images through his original and creative prose as if he is some sort of magician. As George Orwell used to maintain that writing is about getting rid of one's inner demons Nabokov mentions in the introduction to the English translation-“The beginner’s well-known propensity for obtruding upon his own privacy, by introducing himself, as vicar, into his first novel, owes less to the attraction of a ready made theme than to the relief of getting rid of oneself, before going on to better things.”
Where is the happiness, the sunshine, where are those thick skittles of wood which crashed and bounced so nicely, where is my bicycle with the low handlebars and the big gear? It seems there's a law which says that nothing ever vanishes, that matter is indestructible; therefore the chips from my skittles and the spokes of my bicycle still exist somewhere to this day. The pity of it is that I'll never find them again - never.
December 19, 2024
Un roman simplu, fără subtilități narative și fără digresiuni metafizice. A intrat în biblioteca mea afectivă de la prima lectură (în 1997), într-o ediție scoasă de răposata editură Albatros.
Tema primei iubiri nu era o noutate în literatura rusă. Turgheniev (Prima iubire) și Dostoievski (Adolescentul) oferiseră deja două ilustrații. Nu știu dacă există cu adevărat o primă iubire, eu nu-mi amintesc să fi avut una, poate am început cu a doua sau, poate, cu ultima. Dar Lev Ganin, eroul cărții lui Nabokov, romanul lui de debut (scris în 1925), e sigur că a trăit o astfel de iubire. Și e sigur și că această iubire nu se va stinge niciodată: e o „iubire pentru totdeauna”. Are dreptate. Tot ceea ce urmează în viața noastră amoroasă, iubirile succesive, iubirea pentru Liudmila (în cazul lui Ganin), e doar încercarea zadarnică de a retrăi iubirea dintîi.
Într-o viață de om, nu iubim de multe ori (de două-trei ori, cel mult), cei care pretind că au avut zeci și zeci de iubiri năprasnice se iluzionează sau mint. Nimeni nu are un suflet atît de încăpător. Nu mai are rost să notez că iubirea e una și erosul e cu totul altceva. Rareori coincid.
Ciudat e că Mașenka, prima iubire a lui Ganin și actuala soție a searbădului Alfiorov, e, de-a lungul cărții, o absență luminoasă. Mașenka nu apare în roman. Dar e mult mai prezentă decît „sufletele moarte”, care locuiesc în pensiunea din Berlin („casa cu umbre”), mai prezentă decît blînda Klara, să zicem. Mașenka trăiește prin / în discuțiile sumare dintre cei doi bărbați, în replicile extaziate ale lui Alfiorov, în fotografiile pe care soțul i le arată lui Ganin („Mașenka e cea care stă jos, cu rochie mai deschisă”) și, îndeosebi, în amintirile celui din urmă (și în cele 5 scrisori pe care le-a păstrat). Vladimir Nabokov ar fi trebuit să folosească aici monologul interior: cînd prezinți gîndurile unui personaj, naratorul omniscient nu e cel mai potrivit.
Mașenka e solid situată în trecut (în trecutul lui Alfiorov care nu a mai văzut-o de patru ani, în trecutul și mai îndepărtat al lui Ganin) și, din clipa în care protagonistul părăsește gara și refuză s-o întîlnească, rămîne pentru totdeauna acolo, fără vîrstă și chip, o femeie atemporală, mai frumoasă decît toate femeile prezente...
Rămîne pentru o notă viitoare întrebarea cu privire la refuzul lui Ganin de a se re-întîlni cu Mașenka. Vrea să evite o dezamăgire? Sau a înțeles că repetiția nu e cu putință? S-ar putea ca romanul lui Nabokov să fie și o meditație despre imposibilitatea repetiției. Nimic nu se repetă întocmai, cum credea Nietzsche. Mai ales (și din păcate), iubirea.
Tema primei iubiri nu era o noutate în literatura rusă. Turgheniev (Prima iubire) și Dostoievski (Adolescentul) oferiseră deja două ilustrații. Nu știu dacă există cu adevărat o primă iubire, eu nu-mi amintesc să fi avut una, poate am început cu a doua sau, poate, cu ultima. Dar Lev Ganin, eroul cărții lui Nabokov, romanul lui de debut (scris în 1925), e sigur că a trăit o astfel de iubire. Și e sigur și că această iubire nu se va stinge niciodată: e o „iubire pentru totdeauna”. Are dreptate. Tot ceea ce urmează în viața noastră amoroasă, iubirile succesive, iubirea pentru Liudmila (în cazul lui Ganin), e doar încercarea zadarnică de a retrăi iubirea dintîi.
Într-o viață de om, nu iubim de multe ori (de două-trei ori, cel mult), cei care pretind că au avut zeci și zeci de iubiri năprasnice se iluzionează sau mint. Nimeni nu are un suflet atît de încăpător. Nu mai are rost să notez că iubirea e una și erosul e cu totul altceva. Rareori coincid.
Ciudat e că Mașenka, prima iubire a lui Ganin și actuala soție a searbădului Alfiorov, e, de-a lungul cărții, o absență luminoasă. Mașenka nu apare în roman. Dar e mult mai prezentă decît „sufletele moarte”, care locuiesc în pensiunea din Berlin („casa cu umbre”), mai prezentă decît blînda Klara, să zicem. Mașenka trăiește prin / în discuțiile sumare dintre cei doi bărbați, în replicile extaziate ale lui Alfiorov, în fotografiile pe care soțul i le arată lui Ganin („Mașenka e cea care stă jos, cu rochie mai deschisă”) și, îndeosebi, în amintirile celui din urmă (și în cele 5 scrisori pe care le-a păstrat). Vladimir Nabokov ar fi trebuit să folosească aici monologul interior: cînd prezinți gîndurile unui personaj, naratorul omniscient nu e cel mai potrivit.
Mașenka e solid situată în trecut (în trecutul lui Alfiorov care nu a mai văzut-o de patru ani, în trecutul și mai îndepărtat al lui Ganin) și, din clipa în care protagonistul părăsește gara și refuză s-o întîlnească, rămîne pentru totdeauna acolo, fără vîrstă și chip, o femeie atemporală, mai frumoasă decît toate femeile prezente...
Rămîne pentru o notă viitoare întrebarea cu privire la refuzul lui Ganin de a se re-întîlni cu Mașenka. Vrea să evite o dezamăgire? Sau a înțeles că repetiția nu e cu putință? S-ar putea ca romanul lui Nabokov să fie și o meditație despre imposibilitatea repetiției. Nimic nu se repetă întocmai, cum credea Nietzsche. Mai ales (și din păcate), iubirea.
June 15, 2023
So, this is where it all began. Having already read his final novel, and a whole load more in between that and his first, which I just assumed I'd already read after binging on most of his earlier work, I realised I hadn't, in fact, read Mary. How did I miss that one out? No better time like the present I suppose, to read about a love from the past. This has much in common with some of his other work, in terms of the Russian emigre, Berlin, and nostalgia. But the one thing I noticed, regarding Nabokov's list of unreliable narrators, is that the central character here isn't one. And I'd also say the tone of his first novel is less humorous and more touching than some others too. It's funny, that while reading this, two other novels came to mind - Patrick Hamilton's The Slaves of Solitude & Muriel Spark's A Far Cry from Kensington, because they, Like Mary, feature various residents living in a boarding house. Here we have a failing poet, two ballet-dancer homosexuals, another who is soon to be joined by his wife, and Ganin, who, after recognizing a photo of his first romance, starts to seep back through the memories of the happiest days of his life, when he was smitten with Mary. Basically, Ganin wants to reclaim his youth and spirit away with Mary. In the real world now though, he is drifting through life with about as much passion and zest as a pebble being brushed on the shore by a murky sea. This was a simple but intriguing little novel, that might not feature his glorious prose from future work, but as debuts go, I found it to be a fine piece of writing.
December 14, 2018
Vladimir Nabokov's debut novel, Mary, is a well written story about a youthful love. In many respects, this short novel feels like a Dostoevsky novel exploring different and not quite so existential themes. Unfortunately, Mary doesn't live up to either Dostoevsky's or Nabokov's later works. The playfulness of language which marks Nabokov's other works isn't here. Moreover, the protagonist's reflection on his memory of love doesn't really become poignant until the book's end. Mary has a nice ending and it is interesting to see the roots of other works here, including his autobiography, Speak Memory. This is really a very solid work, but I'm afraid I can't help judging Nabokov against his later novels. 3.5 stars.
December 25, 2015
“He was powerless because he had no precise desire, and this tortured him because he was vainly seeking something to desire.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Mary
Amazing to think Nabokov was starting his journey here. While Nabokov's first novel purports to be about Mary, it is really about memory, nostalgia, that yearning for the past. It is also about anticipation: the exile's return, the lover's arrival, all the emotions of expectancy. Mary centers on émigré Lev Glebovich Ganin. He is trying to separate himself from Lyudmila (a woman he no longer loves or even likes), while waiting for fellow pension dweller, Alfyorov's wife (an early love?) to appear. Yes, Mary is much anticipated. All the while, Ganin basically ignores Klara, the eponymous 'girl next door', who adores him.
This tangle of relationships all takes place in a small setting -- a Berlin pension filled with Russian expats. The setting (almost a closed circle mystery sans mystery) reminded me a bit of Eric Ambler's Epitaph for a Spy in that it all takes place largely among a hotel/pension with various characters interacting. Anyway, it was good Nabokov ... just not great.
You see the beginnings of what will eventually pupate and make Nabokov great, but there just isn't enough. His prose is almost there. His themes are almost ready. His voice is shaky, but strong and young. But just you wait: Speak, Memory, The Gift, Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle, Lolita, Pale Fire, Pnin and many more are just about to eclose from the puparium of Nabokov's brain.
― Vladimir Nabokov, Mary
Amazing to think Nabokov was starting his journey here. While Nabokov's first novel purports to be about Mary, it is really about memory, nostalgia, that yearning for the past. It is also about anticipation: the exile's return, the lover's arrival, all the emotions of expectancy. Mary centers on émigré Lev Glebovich Ganin. He is trying to separate himself from Lyudmila (a woman he no longer loves or even likes), while waiting for fellow pension dweller, Alfyorov's wife (an early love?) to appear. Yes, Mary is much anticipated. All the while, Ganin basically ignores Klara, the eponymous 'girl next door', who adores him.
This tangle of relationships all takes place in a small setting -- a Berlin pension filled with Russian expats. The setting (almost a closed circle mystery sans mystery) reminded me a bit of Eric Ambler's Epitaph for a Spy in that it all takes place largely among a hotel/pension with various characters interacting. Anyway, it was good Nabokov ... just not great.
You see the beginnings of what will eventually pupate and make Nabokov great, but there just isn't enough. His prose is almost there. His themes are almost ready. His voice is shaky, but strong and young. But just you wait: Speak, Memory, The Gift, Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle, Lolita, Pale Fire, Pnin and many more are just about to eclose from the puparium of Nabokov's brain.
June 15, 2016
Not all loves come together; Not all loves fade away; some remain dormant as an indelible image of memory within us and gnaws at us from inside only during the loneliest hours. Especially, the first love!
This is such a story of a loving image which lives forever in the shadow of an ill-fated lover. It has been years that Ganin saw Mary lastly. But her smiling eyes, her twitching lips, and her halo in the evening sun remain as fresh as morning’s rain in his memory. The past is irretrievable but also unforgettable and the future is uncertain, while the present offers nothing but a hopeless, dull reality. Mary seems to be the only medicine for his never ending, isolated living.
While the countries were making war, they were waging love in the autumnal evening, careless of sneaky eyes behind the tainted glasses. He has been dragging his shadow to all places but part of him, he thinks, always belongs to Mary. Ganin, now, in a foreign city, recollects everything about Mary, and grows drunk with her memories. Now, even the memory of her cheap perfume seems luxurious to him. But, an old, faded photograph in a neighbor’s table-drawer announces to him that she is not his anymore.
Imagine, what Mary would mean to someone who is living in an exile from his home land and who lost everything. Her arrival gives him hope for a promising escape from his bleak life in his dull lodge. To doubt her love for him, after all these years, is pointless, he thinks. She has always loved him. But, what-if can’t be excluded. Here, he awaits the arrival of Mary with the memory of her image, sitting on a cold, park bench.
This is not only a story of a first love but also the first book of Nabokov. Another strong example which portrays the unmatched writing ability of Nabokov. There are paragraphs where he can make you get lost in the woods and get caught by the lovers for observing them closely. Purely magical!
This is such a story of a loving image which lives forever in the shadow of an ill-fated lover. It has been years that Ganin saw Mary lastly. But her smiling eyes, her twitching lips, and her halo in the evening sun remain as fresh as morning’s rain in his memory. The past is irretrievable but also unforgettable and the future is uncertain, while the present offers nothing but a hopeless, dull reality. Mary seems to be the only medicine for his never ending, isolated living.
While the countries were making war, they were waging love in the autumnal evening, careless of sneaky eyes behind the tainted glasses. He has been dragging his shadow to all places but part of him, he thinks, always belongs to Mary. Ganin, now, in a foreign city, recollects everything about Mary, and grows drunk with her memories. Now, even the memory of her cheap perfume seems luxurious to him. But, an old, faded photograph in a neighbor’s table-drawer announces to him that she is not his anymore.
Imagine, what Mary would mean to someone who is living in an exile from his home land and who lost everything. Her arrival gives him hope for a promising escape from his bleak life in his dull lodge. To doubt her love for him, after all these years, is pointless, he thinks. She has always loved him. But, what-if can’t be excluded. Here, he awaits the arrival of Mary with the memory of her image, sitting on a cold, park bench.
This is not only a story of a first love but also the first book of Nabokov. Another strong example which portrays the unmatched writing ability of Nabokov. There are paragraphs where he can make you get lost in the woods and get caught by the lovers for observing them closely. Purely magical!
July 15, 2023
Let me get rid of the shackles of love
And let me try to stop thinking!
Replenish, replenish the glasses with wine—
Let me keep drinking and drinking!
Mashenka (Mary), Nabokov’s first novel, is again about a group of émigrés in Germany who are handpicked by our mischievous author to amuse us.
We have a poet, two ex-ballet dancers, a self-centered man who is full of himself, an unmarried woman, the old landlady and our hero.
This is a story about recreating worlds that have perished; resurrecting memories and images from the past; pining for the lost love; yearning for Motherland.
And where is it all now? Where is the happiness, the sunshine?
And let me try to stop thinking!
Replenish, replenish the glasses with wine—
Let me keep drinking and drinking!
Mashenka (Mary), Nabokov’s first novel, is again about a group of émigrés in Germany who are handpicked by our mischievous author to amuse us.
We have a poet, two ex-ballet dancers, a self-centered man who is full of himself, an unmarried woman, the old landlady and our hero.
This is a story about recreating worlds that have perished; resurrecting memories and images from the past; pining for the lost love; yearning for Motherland.
And where is it all now? Where is the happiness, the sunshine?
September 17, 2021
[11th book of 2021. No artist for this review as I feel rather uninspired, but there is a Magritte painting that reminded me of a certain element.]
Nabokov is now regarded one of the big literary giants of the 20th century, and as his opinions are perhaps just as well known as his novels; he famously (infamously) attacked a number of considered masterpieces. So, in a sick sort of way, I was looking forward to reading Mary, his first novel, and seeing him as a fumbling, timid and inexperienced writer. This was not the case, in the end.
Though not as realised as his later works, of course, Nabokov’s writing here is lovely. We are drawn, mostly, into a pension in Berlin where a cast of characters live, including our protagonist, Ganin. The most brilliant thing about the Berlin setting, this old building, is the idea throughout that trains on the nearby railway lines appear to be passing through the house.
“Time Transfixed”—1938 [Said Magritte Painting]
Mary is about first love. Ganin is an unemployed, rather despondent, young Russian living in Berlin with a number of other Russians in this pension. One of the other occupants of the building has his wife arriving, and that is the thread that carries us through the novel: the arrival of Mary. It transpires that this man’s wife, Mary, was once a lover of Ganin’s, a long time ago, in Russia. It was only a four month affair but it seems that Ganin believes he was far happier then, surer of himself; I think it is something we have all felt in our lives, that, if only we were elsewhere, we would be happier, healthier, better, etc. people. Of course, it is never the case: you are who you are in England, in Russia, in Germany, in France. Like it goes in Joyce’s Ulysses: Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. As well as being about love, I think Mary is also about this idea. There is the wonderful character, a poet, called Podtyagin, who also lives in the building who spends the entire novel attempting to get a passport to get to Paris where he believes it is cheaper and better than Berlin, where he imagines he will be happier. His continuous trying takes up fragments of the novel, along with his frequent heart attacks. And poor Ganin is also trying to ditch a girlfriend he no longer loves, but cannot work out how to do it. The novel, with these parts and characters, becomes quite claustrophobic, but Nabokov does give us some breathing room.
Despite being his first novel, Nabokov excellently moves the narrative from the present to the past. For the time, surprisingly, this novel has Nabokov writing Russia as a setting. Slowly, we see snatches of Ganin’s past in Russia with the elusive Mary, whom we are still waiting for in the present. It was only a four month affair but I suppose Ganin has exploded it in his mind, romanticised it. So, as well as being about running from oneself, I think it is also about forgotten version of ourselves. All the characters in the novel have these odd traits, odd pasts. This is a brilliant quote, quite near the start of the novel, that I think captures the concept of forgotten versions of ourselves. It is during the explanations of Ganin’s previous jobs:
This image, and the image of a train clattering straight through the middle of the building, will linger in my mind; like a train’s horn in the night, they are oddly melancholic images.
Nabokov is now regarded one of the big literary giants of the 20th century, and as his opinions are perhaps just as well known as his novels; he famously (infamously) attacked a number of considered masterpieces. So, in a sick sort of way, I was looking forward to reading Mary, his first novel, and seeing him as a fumbling, timid and inexperienced writer. This was not the case, in the end.
Though not as realised as his later works, of course, Nabokov’s writing here is lovely. We are drawn, mostly, into a pension in Berlin where a cast of characters live, including our protagonist, Ganin. The most brilliant thing about the Berlin setting, this old building, is the idea throughout that trains on the nearby railway lines appear to be passing through the house.
That bridge was a continuation of the tracks that could be seen from Ganin’s window, and he could never rid himself of the feeling that every train was passing, unseen, right through the house itself. It would come in from the far side, its phantom reverberation would shake the wall, jolt its way across the old carpet, graze a glass on the washstand, and finally disappear out of the window with a chilling clang—immediately followed by a cloud of smoke billowing up outside the window, and as this subsided a train of the Stadtbahn would emerge as though excreted by the house: olive-drab carriages with a row of dark dog-nipples along their roofs and a stubby little locomotive coupled at the wrong end, moving briskly backward as it pulled the carriages into the white distance between black walls, whose sooty blackness was either coming in patches or was mottled with frescoes of outdated advertisements.
“Time Transfixed”—1938 [Said Magritte Painting]
Mary is about first love. Ganin is an unemployed, rather despondent, young Russian living in Berlin with a number of other Russians in this pension. One of the other occupants of the building has his wife arriving, and that is the thread that carries us through the novel: the arrival of Mary. It transpires that this man’s wife, Mary, was once a lover of Ganin’s, a long time ago, in Russia. It was only a four month affair but it seems that Ganin believes he was far happier then, surer of himself; I think it is something we have all felt in our lives, that, if only we were elsewhere, we would be happier, healthier, better, etc. people. Of course, it is never the case: you are who you are in England, in Russia, in Germany, in France. Like it goes in Joyce’s Ulysses: Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. As well as being about love, I think Mary is also about this idea. There is the wonderful character, a poet, called Podtyagin, who also lives in the building who spends the entire novel attempting to get a passport to get to Paris where he believes it is cheaper and better than Berlin, where he imagines he will be happier. His continuous trying takes up fragments of the novel, along with his frequent heart attacks. And poor Ganin is also trying to ditch a girlfriend he no longer loves, but cannot work out how to do it. The novel, with these parts and characters, becomes quite claustrophobic, but Nabokov does give us some breathing room.
Despite being his first novel, Nabokov excellently moves the narrative from the present to the past. For the time, surprisingly, this novel has Nabokov writing Russia as a setting. Slowly, we see snatches of Ganin’s past in Russia with the elusive Mary, whom we are still waiting for in the present. It was only a four month affair but I suppose Ganin has exploded it in his mind, romanticised it. So, as well as being about running from oneself, I think it is also about forgotten version of ourselves. All the characters in the novel have these odd traits, odd pasts. This is a brilliant quote, quite near the start of the novel, that I think captures the concept of forgotten versions of ourselves. It is during the explanations of Ganin’s previous jobs:
Nothing was beneath his dignity; more than once he had even sold his shadow, as many of us have. In other words he went out to the suburbs to work as a movie extra on a set, in a fairground barn, where light seethed with a mystical hiss from the huge facets of lamps that were aimed, like cannon, at a crowd of extras, lit to a deathly brightness. They would fire a barrage of murderous brilliance, illuminating the painted wax of motionless faces, then expiring with a click—but for a long time yet there would glow, in those elaborate crystals, dying red sunsets—our human shame. The deal was clinched, and our anonymous shadows sent out all over the world.
This image, and the image of a train clattering straight through the middle of the building, will linger in my mind; like a train’s horn in the night, they are oddly melancholic images.
March 30, 2015
این کتاب رو بخاطر مترجمش عباس پژمان از کتابخونه برداشتم
ولی کاش از این غلطا نمی کردم
:)
کتاب ناباکوف،اولاش قرار بود 4 ستاره بگیره و از اواسط کتاب سهامش شروع به سقوط کرد
تا همین ریویو که میخاستم بنویسم دو ستاره داشت
ولی همین که در نوشتن ریویو تعلل به سراغم اومد و نمیدانستم چی بنویسم
حرصم در اومد و یه ستاره دیگه ازش گرفتم
مثه این تیمسارها و نظامی ها، منم به ناباکوف میگم زود از جلو چشم گم شو تا همون یه ستاره رو هم ازت نگرفتم
تو این هاگیر و واگیر داره برام خاطره تعریف میکنه
؛)
ولی کاش از این غلطا نمی کردم
:)
کتاب ناباکوف،اولاش قرار بود 4 ستاره بگیره و از اواسط کتاب سهامش شروع به سقوط کرد
تا همین ریویو که میخاستم بنویسم دو ستاره داشت
ولی همین که در نوشتن ریویو تعلل به سراغم اومد و نمیدانستم چی بنویسم
حرصم در اومد و یه ستاره دیگه ازش گرفتم
مثه این تیمسارها و نظامی ها، منم به ناباکوف میگم زود از جلو چشم گم شو تا همون یه ستاره رو هم ازت نگرفتم
تو این هاگیر و واگیر داره برام خاطره تعریف میکنه
؛)
May 26, 2013
I read this in 1999 and then again a few years ago. THIS is what first novels should aspire towards. Instead every MFA wants to Pynchon-it over the fence and we have reams of bad puns and pop culture references all alluding to some Grand Joke. Well, that wasn't funny, was it?
This is a tome about estrangement, when the ideas and habits of home are exiled, what's left?
This is a tome about estrangement, when the ideas and habits of home are exiled, what's left?
July 25, 2020
This is Nabokov’s first novel. It was written when he was in his twenties, living as an émigré in Berlin, just as is the story’s central protagonist. Both are writers. Nabokov has constructed the novel on events in his own life, making it partially autobiographical. It’s a mix of fact and fiction. While the novel is his first, it was the last of his nine Russian novels, written from 1926 through 1938, to be translated into English. The translation was done by Michael Glenny “in collaboration with the author.” One appreciates Nabokov for his excellent prose, which in my view makes his collaboration essential. This information is found in the author’s note at the book’s end.
The story is short. It circles around a handful of poor Russian émigrés living in a Berlin boarding house. Most are young, but there is also an elderly Russian poet. The widowed landlady is Russian too. The central protagonist, Lev Glebovich Ganin by name, had years back been in love with a woman who now turns out to be the wife of another boarder. Nobody knows this but him. She will be arriving in a few days. During the interim, he relives in his mind all that they had done together. This woman, the married wife of one and the earlier lover of another, is the eponymous Mary. Other women are also rivaling for Ganin's affection What we have here is a story about who will end up with whom. We also get a peek at the Russian émigré community in Berlin between the wars.
As the story unfolds, we are treated to Nabokov’s delightful prose. His writing is, as always, chock full of colorful details. He has a knack for making the mundane special. He writes lyrically, beautifully. Sometimes you laugh. Sometimes he leaves you thinking.
To sample the writing, I have provided three quotes:
“Where is the happiness, the sunshine? Where are those thick skittles of wood which crashed and bounced so nicely? Where is my bicycle with the low handlebars and the big gear? It seems there's a law which says that nothing ever vanishes, that matter is indestructible; therefor the chips from my skittles and the spokes of my bicycle still exist somewhere to this day. The pity of it is that I'll never find them again - never.”
“Memory can restore to life everything except smells, although nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.”
“I put everything into my poetry that I should have put into my life, and now it's too late for me to start all over again. The only thought that occurs to me at the moment is that in the final reckoning it's better to have been sanguine by temperament, a man of action, and if you must get drunk do it properly and smash the place up.”
Nabokov focuses upon the passage of time and its affect upon individuals. Our past experiences influence us, but this does not mean we can hop back into the past.
In this book is evoked a deep love for the Russian homeland, made evident as Ganin recalls earlier times in his life. He had been a White Guard. During the Civil War he fought in the Crimea.
The audiobook is read by Christopher Lane. His pace is fine and his words pretty clear, but I would have preferred less dramatization. His narration I have given three stars.
This is one of Nabokov’s easier novels. There is nothing complicated here; the story itself is simple. For me it is the prose that makes it worth reading.
I have listed here the names of the central characters. Since Russians go by several names, one is easily confused. With the list in front of me, this problem disappeared. I hope this list will help you too!
* Lev Glebovich Ganin – The protagonist of the novel; a young displaced Russian writer in Berlin who is unable to forget Mary, his first love.
* Aleksey Ivanovich Alfyorov – The husband of Mary and the neighbour of Ganin.
* Lydia Nikolaevna Dorn – The landlady of Ganin. An old Russian woman who inherited the boarding house after her German husband died.
* Lyudmila Borisovna Rubanski – Ganin's girlfriend in the opening chapters of the novel.
* Klara – A young Russian girl living in the same building as Ganin. She harbors an intense attraction to him.
* Anton Sergeyevich Podtyagin – An old Russian poet who desires to leave Berlin for Paris.
* Mary Alfyorov – Aleksey Ivanovich Alfyorov’s wife and Ganin's first love.
(Source: Wiki with minor alterations to remove spoilers.)
****************
*Lolita 5 stars
*Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle 5 stars
*Speak, Memory 5 stars
*Mary 4 stars
*Glory 4 stars
*The Gift 3 stars
*Pale Fire 2 stars
*Pnin 1 star
*Despair 1 star
*Laughter in the Dark TBR
*Transparent Things TBR
*King, Queen, Knave TBR
*The Real Life of Sebastian Knight TBR
TBR
The story is short. It circles around a handful of poor Russian émigrés living in a Berlin boarding house. Most are young, but there is also an elderly Russian poet. The widowed landlady is Russian too. The central protagonist, Lev Glebovich Ganin by name, had years back been in love with a woman who now turns out to be the wife of another boarder. Nobody knows this but him. She will be arriving in a few days. During the interim, he relives in his mind all that they had done together. This woman, the married wife of one and the earlier lover of another, is the eponymous Mary. Other women are also rivaling for Ganin's affection What we have here is a story about who will end up with whom. We also get a peek at the Russian émigré community in Berlin between the wars.
As the story unfolds, we are treated to Nabokov’s delightful prose. His writing is, as always, chock full of colorful details. He has a knack for making the mundane special. He writes lyrically, beautifully. Sometimes you laugh. Sometimes he leaves you thinking.
To sample the writing, I have provided three quotes:
“Where is the happiness, the sunshine? Where are those thick skittles of wood which crashed and bounced so nicely? Where is my bicycle with the low handlebars and the big gear? It seems there's a law which says that nothing ever vanishes, that matter is indestructible; therefor the chips from my skittles and the spokes of my bicycle still exist somewhere to this day. The pity of it is that I'll never find them again - never.”
“Memory can restore to life everything except smells, although nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.”
“I put everything into my poetry that I should have put into my life, and now it's too late for me to start all over again. The only thought that occurs to me at the moment is that in the final reckoning it's better to have been sanguine by temperament, a man of action, and if you must get drunk do it properly and smash the place up.”
Nabokov focuses upon the passage of time and its affect upon individuals. Our past experiences influence us, but this does not mean we can hop back into the past.
In this book is evoked a deep love for the Russian homeland, made evident as Ganin recalls earlier times in his life. He had been a White Guard. During the Civil War he fought in the Crimea.
The audiobook is read by Christopher Lane. His pace is fine and his words pretty clear, but I would have preferred less dramatization. His narration I have given three stars.
This is one of Nabokov’s easier novels. There is nothing complicated here; the story itself is simple. For me it is the prose that makes it worth reading.
I have listed here the names of the central characters. Since Russians go by several names, one is easily confused. With the list in front of me, this problem disappeared. I hope this list will help you too!
* Lev Glebovich Ganin – The protagonist of the novel; a young displaced Russian writer in Berlin who is unable to forget Mary, his first love.
* Aleksey Ivanovich Alfyorov – The husband of Mary and the neighbour of Ganin.
* Lydia Nikolaevna Dorn – The landlady of Ganin. An old Russian woman who inherited the boarding house after her German husband died.
* Lyudmila Borisovna Rubanski – Ganin's girlfriend in the opening chapters of the novel.
* Klara – A young Russian girl living in the same building as Ganin. She harbors an intense attraction to him.
* Anton Sergeyevich Podtyagin – An old Russian poet who desires to leave Berlin for Paris.
* Mary Alfyorov – Aleksey Ivanovich Alfyorov’s wife and Ganin's first love.
(Source: Wiki with minor alterations to remove spoilers.)
****************
*Lolita 5 stars
*Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle 5 stars
*Speak, Memory 5 stars
*Mary 4 stars
*Glory 4 stars
*The Gift 3 stars
*Pale Fire 2 stars
*Pnin 1 star
*Despair 1 star
*Laughter in the Dark TBR
*Transparent Things TBR
*King, Queen, Knave TBR
*The Real Life of Sebastian Knight TBR
TBR
May 12, 2022
I was shocked to discover that this was Nabokov's first published work ever. His prose is pure poetry—so, so beautifully written. His imagery is so painfully beautiful and infused with such an observant nostalgia, so visceral and full of youthful longing. That is, by the way, what Mary is about. Ganin is a man residing in a boarding house in Berlin. It is a boarding house full of people, various characters of sort, and the streets of Berlin are so real and beautiful, and yet Ganin feels more alone than ever before. He is breathless, for he has been running for something from a long time, and that thing has caught up to him. The thing he is running from is a particular memory—a memory of his first love, Mary.
However, something happens that conjures up an image of Mary in his mind, and this is the beginning of what will be days and weeks that bleed together until all we can do is observe Ganin swimming in the bittersweet red mass of his open love-wound.
I found it painfully relatable: many of us have memories we are running from. Those glittering sepia-tinted visions perpetually fester in our minds. We try to shut out their beguiling cries, draping white sheets over them and shoving them into corners of our consciousness that we make sure we do not venture to. As the seasons trip over themselves, we seem to succeed in whatever it is we are trying to do with these memories—hide and destroy them, or perhaps preserve and protect them? One may never know—however, the voices do grow weaker and the white sheets become replete with dust, untouched. But for some reason, the more a person tries to run, the more successful these memories are at catching up to and obliterating us. Perhaps it's because one can only do so much running before one gets tired, before one becomes dizzy and disoriented and afraid, before it becomes apparent that one is not driving oneself to victory but simply into another form of abysmal suffering. Our Ganin was doing precisely that: "He was powerless because he had no precise desire, and this tortured him because he was vainly seeking something to desire."
It goes to show how skilled memories are in the art of hunting and haunting. When they see that a person has nothing else, they offer themselves back up again, pretending to be treasures. They become beautiful again. The white sheets become ridiculous, even offensive; the sepia tint is banished and now the colours, sensations, and desires are as vivid as if it were yesterday. I think, however, that the ending is symbolic—Ganin suddenly realizes that "the world of memories in which [he] had dwelt became what it was in reality the distant past... other than that image no Mary existed, nor could exist". Nabokov is trying to comfort us, to reassure us that these effulgent images and sensations have a finite amount of power. They are holograms against a tortured night sky, and we are so focused on this velvety darkness that we forget that a sunrise is beginning to blossom behind us.
In short, Nabokov is simply telling us, "Move on!"
"It is at moments like this that everything grows fabulous, unfathomably profound, when life seems terrifying and death even worse. And then, as one swiftly strides through the nighttime city, looking at the lights through one’s tears and searching in them for a glorious, dazzling recollection of past happiness—a woman’s face, resurgent after many years of humdrum oblivion—all of a sudden, in one’s mad progress, one is politely stopped by a foot passenger and asked how to get to such and such a street; asked in an ordinary voice, but a voice which one will never hear again."
However, something happens that conjures up an image of Mary in his mind, and this is the beginning of what will be days and weeks that bleed together until all we can do is observe Ganin swimming in the bittersweet red mass of his open love-wound.
I found it painfully relatable: many of us have memories we are running from. Those glittering sepia-tinted visions perpetually fester in our minds. We try to shut out their beguiling cries, draping white sheets over them and shoving them into corners of our consciousness that we make sure we do not venture to. As the seasons trip over themselves, we seem to succeed in whatever it is we are trying to do with these memories—hide and destroy them, or perhaps preserve and protect them? One may never know—however, the voices do grow weaker and the white sheets become replete with dust, untouched. But for some reason, the more a person tries to run, the more successful these memories are at catching up to and obliterating us. Perhaps it's because one can only do so much running before one gets tired, before one becomes dizzy and disoriented and afraid, before it becomes apparent that one is not driving oneself to victory but simply into another form of abysmal suffering. Our Ganin was doing precisely that: "He was powerless because he had no precise desire, and this tortured him because he was vainly seeking something to desire."
It goes to show how skilled memories are in the art of hunting and haunting. When they see that a person has nothing else, they offer themselves back up again, pretending to be treasures. They become beautiful again. The white sheets become ridiculous, even offensive; the sepia tint is banished and now the colours, sensations, and desires are as vivid as if it were yesterday. I think, however, that the ending is symbolic—Ganin suddenly realizes that "the world of memories in which [he] had dwelt became what it was in reality the distant past... other than that image no Mary existed, nor could exist". Nabokov is trying to comfort us, to reassure us that these effulgent images and sensations have a finite amount of power. They are holograms against a tortured night sky, and we are so focused on this velvety darkness that we forget that a sunrise is beginning to blossom behind us.
In short, Nabokov is simply telling us, "Move on!"
"It is at moments like this that everything grows fabulous, unfathomably profound, when life seems terrifying and death even worse. And then, as one swiftly strides through the nighttime city, looking at the lights through one’s tears and searching in them for a glorious, dazzling recollection of past happiness—a woman’s face, resurgent after many years of humdrum oblivion—all of a sudden, in one’s mad progress, one is politely stopped by a foot passenger and asked how to get to such and such a street; asked in an ordinary voice, but a voice which one will never hear again."
May 11, 2018
"Машенка" - Владимир Набоков
Ех, тази "Машенка" ми разтопи сърцето... Не очаквах, че първият роман на Владимир Набоков ще ми въздейства толкова, ама ето че майсторското перо умее да вълнува и чрез най-експлоатираната тема в изкуството. Винаги съм знаела, че за голямата литература не е от чак такова значение за какво, а как се разказва. Машенка (какво мило обръщение) е името на първата любима на Лев, който заедно с няколко колоритни руснаци, избягали от родината, живее в пансион в Берлин през 20-год. на ХХ век.
В рамките на няколко дни Лев си припомня невинните години на първата любов, срещите в изоставена къща под дъжда с любимото момиче и разменените по-късно писма без укори и обвинения. Машенка е спомен за детството, за младостта, за Русия, за надеждите и мечтите. Тя е символ на всичко онова, което сякаш на шега си имал, но е осмисляло целия ти живот, и което си изгубил без сам да разбереш кога точно и защо. Машенка връща смисъла и надеждата, че нищо не е безвръзватно изгубено, че животът може да продължи оттам, откъдето е застинал. За няколко блажени дни Лев започва да живее отново. Дали обаче можем да върнем миналото и трябва ли?
Много красота има в тази книга, много поезия и меланхолия. Преобладаващият цвят е синьото, което ме подсети за "Теорията на цветовете" на Гьоте и за символиката на синия цвят в Немския романтизъм. Машенка е облечена в синьо, носи сини метличини. На много места из описанията се споменава синият цвят на морето, небето, стените в пансиона са боядисани в синьо. Всичко това навява студ, тъга, носталгия, меланхолия по изгубеното, но и усещане за свобода, простор и необятност. Въпреки тъжния финал, книгата остави у мен светло чувство, защото каквото и да се случва, когато си изживял такава любов, не може да си живял напразно.
Ех, тази "Машенка" ми разтопи сърцето... Не очаквах, че първият роман на Владимир Набоков ще ми въздейства толкова, ама ето че майсторското перо умее да вълнува и чрез най-експлоатираната тема в изкуството. Винаги съм знаела, че за голямата литература не е от чак такова значение за какво, а как се разказва. Машенка (какво мило обръщение) е името на първата любима на Лев, който заедно с няколко колоритни руснаци, избягали от родината, живее в пансион в Берлин през 20-год. на ХХ век.
В рамките на няколко дни Лев си припомня невинните години на първата любов, срещите в изоставена къща под дъжда с любимото момиче и разменените по-късно писма без укори и обвинения. Машенка е спомен за детството, за младостта, за Русия, за надеждите и мечтите. Тя е символ на всичко онова, което сякаш на шега си имал, но е осмисляло целия ти живот, и което си изгубил без сам да разбереш кога точно и защо. Машенка връща смисъла и надеждата, че нищо не е безвръзватно изгубено, че животът може да продължи оттам, откъдето е застинал. За няколко блажени дни Лев започва да живее отново. Дали обаче можем да върнем миналото и трябва ли?
Много красота има в тази книга, много поезия и меланхолия. Преобладаващият цвят е синьото, което ме подсети за "Теорията на цветовете" на Гьоте и за символиката на синия цвят в Немския романтизъм. Машенка е облечена в синьо, носи сини метличини. На много места из описанията се споменава синият цвят на морето, небето, стените в пансиона са боядисани в синьо. Всичко това навява студ, тъга, носталгия, меланхолия по изгубеното, но и усещане за свобода, простор и необятност. Въпреки тъжния финал, книгата остави у мен светло чувство, защото каквото и да се случва, когато си изживял такава любов, не може да си живял напразно.
April 8, 2015
Aw, even Nabokov had to write a first novel. A first novel about first love and the passing of time and the power of memory. Nabokov writes about the languors and lashings of lost love and listless life at 27. A lesser, sometimes lyrical work. How adorable.
Here's a second (andGerman Dutch) opinion of the work: http://joostpollmann.nl/boeken/a-cold...
Take that, my fellow Goodreaders!
Here's a second (and
Take that, my fellow Goodreaders!
September 18, 2010
Nabokov's first novel is a thinly fictionalized account of his first serious love affair. He then presented it as straight autobiography in one of the chapters of Speak, Memory, and finally did another, heavily stylized, fictional version in Ada.
I wonder if he would have returned to this theme again if he had lived another few years? Also, if the woman in question read any of them? I'm trying to imagine how I'd have experienced it. Would I have been deeply touched? creeped out? taken great pains to make sure my husband didn't read the books? left them lying around so that he was sure to notice them? Never having been stalked by a literary genius, I must say that I'm at a loss.
I wonder if he would have returned to this theme again if he had lived another few years? Also, if the woman in question read any of them? I'm trying to imagine how I'd have experienced it. Would I have been deeply touched? creeped out? taken great pains to make sure my husband didn't read the books? left them lying around so that he was sure to notice them? Never having been stalked by a literary genius, I must say that I'm at a loss.
January 19, 2020
This kicks off my first year of Nabokov, where I will read his Russian language novels. Mary is his first novel, written in 1925/26 and published in 1926 when Nabokov was about 27 years old, and, I think, a post-revolution Russian exile in Europe. I say "think" because I haven't begun looking up information on Nabokov yet. I'm intentionally pacing what I know, planning to learn more about his life as I go. So here I started a little blind, taking only a birthday, his 3-page introduction and some conflicting mythologies I hold. Even though this was Nabokov's first novel, it's the last one he had translated to English, in 1970. My edition, salvaged from my in-laws clear-out-and-donate shelf, may be a first edition.
Well, Mary has a lot of autobiographical elements. Our young protagonist and bachelor, Ganin, lives broke, but not desperate, in a "pension" in Berlin, a larger apartment divided up into six single-room apartments, all rented by other more-or-less broke Russian exiles. But Ganin has a history. His family had some property in Russian, and he fought in WWI and in the Russian civil war...but on the wrong side. He name isn't really Lev Glebovich Ganin. He's also at the age in the 20's when the emotions run hot, but the body begins to run a little slower.
Nabokov plays down this book in his introduction, more or less claiming it has no stylistic connection to any of his later work and pleading a sentimental attachment. But it's not a false start, this is a nice evocative book, a look at the broken Russian exile community, and at love, memory, and of the blind stumbling evolution of our younger selves. Discovering his old girlfriend from when he was still a teenager, now married, is coming to Berlin, he begins to relive his experiences with her in his head - for several days.
So, a good start, and nice sense of Nabokov's discomfort with early 20th-century urban life and technology and of his lost accursed Russian home. I don't know that I'm ready to recommend this one to anyone, but I wouldn't discourage you, if you're interested.
-----------------------------------------------
2. Mary by Vladimir Nabokov
translation: Michael Glenny, with the author
published: 1926, translation 1970
format: 117-page 1970 edition hardcover
acquired: from my in-laws collection
read: Jan 11-12
time reading: 3 hr 56 min, 2 min/page
rating: 3 ½
locations: 1920’s Berlin, WWI Russia
Well, Mary has a lot of autobiographical elements. Our young protagonist and bachelor, Ganin, lives broke, but not desperate, in a "pension" in Berlin, a larger apartment divided up into six single-room apartments, all rented by other more-or-less broke Russian exiles. But Ganin has a history. His family had some property in Russian, and he fought in WWI and in the Russian civil war...but on the wrong side. He name isn't really Lev Glebovich Ganin. He's also at the age in the 20's when the emotions run hot, but the body begins to run a little slower.
Nabokov plays down this book in his introduction, more or less claiming it has no stylistic connection to any of his later work and pleading a sentimental attachment. But it's not a false start, this is a nice evocative book, a look at the broken Russian exile community, and at love, memory, and of the blind stumbling evolution of our younger selves. Discovering his old girlfriend from when he was still a teenager, now married, is coming to Berlin, he begins to relive his experiences with her in his head - for several days.
"He was so absorbed with his memories that he was unaware of time. His shadow lodged in Frau Dorn’s pension, while he himself was in Russia, reliving his memories as though they were reality. Time for him had become the progress of recollection, which unfolded gradually."The mixture of personal history and fiction, the conflating of this nostalgia toward love and Russia, give this books its texture and carries it through. It does get a little heavy handed in the analogy of Russia, but also it was really nice, and it was unsettling enough to have some heft. Ganin is a prick, of course. A clever one.
So, a good start, and nice sense of Nabokov's discomfort with early 20th-century urban life and technology and of his lost accursed Russian home. I don't know that I'm ready to recommend this one to anyone, but I wouldn't discourage you, if you're interested.
-----------------------------------------------
2. Mary by Vladimir Nabokov
translation: Michael Glenny, with the author
published: 1926, translation 1970
format: 117-page 1970 edition hardcover
acquired: from my in-laws collection
read: Jan 11-12
time reading: 3 hr 56 min, 2 min/page
rating: 3 ½
locations: 1920’s Berlin, WWI Russia
October 2, 2012
Memories and shadows. Images of the past that roll through the mind like smoke escaping the bellies of locomotives. A photo. A certain scent. Mary. Mary is coming.
Nabokov's first novel has cemented his place on my list of favorite writers. His writing is consistently and incredibly beautiful. In his preface to this printing, he discusses the process of translating "Mary" to English and the problems with the story he refused to fix in the process, retaining every bit of the original writing as possible, save for a few cultural differences.
Problems? Where, Mr. Nabokov? No, "Mary" is not as polished or mature as, say, "Lolita", but I hardly found anything detrimental to it. Except maybe the fact that it was over too quickly and left me wanting more, but in a good way. Hungry for more of Nabokov's incredible prose.
"Mary" is a dream. A ghost. Even when we're presented the present reality instead of Ganin's reconstruction of his past love life with the ethereal beauty of Mary, it is as though we're in a surreal dream state. We wait to wake up in anticipation of Mary. But sometimes our memories and dreams are sweeter than the reality.
This short novel is chalk full of vivid descriptions so skillfully written, I have a feeling they'll be seeping into my own dreams, placing the shade of Mary in my own memories. Maybe I'll find myself waiting on the platform of a train station. Waiting to see the slightly-frayed ends of Mary's black ribbon in her hair, or to catch a glimpse of her enchanting eyes.
A small dose of Nabokov (just over 100 pages), I'd recommend this to anyone, really. New or familiar with the Russian's writing. If you're new to Nabokov, know that his writing, as far as I've experienced, only becomes more beautiful with his age.
I'm off to daydream of Mary.
Nabokov's first novel has cemented his place on my list of favorite writers. His writing is consistently and incredibly beautiful. In his preface to this printing, he discusses the process of translating "Mary" to English and the problems with the story he refused to fix in the process, retaining every bit of the original writing as possible, save for a few cultural differences.
Problems? Where, Mr. Nabokov? No, "Mary" is not as polished or mature as, say, "Lolita", but I hardly found anything detrimental to it. Except maybe the fact that it was over too quickly and left me wanting more, but in a good way. Hungry for more of Nabokov's incredible prose.
"Mary" is a dream. A ghost. Even when we're presented the present reality instead of Ganin's reconstruction of his past love life with the ethereal beauty of Mary, it is as though we're in a surreal dream state. We wait to wake up in anticipation of Mary. But sometimes our memories and dreams are sweeter than the reality.
This short novel is chalk full of vivid descriptions so skillfully written, I have a feeling they'll be seeping into my own dreams, placing the shade of Mary in my own memories. Maybe I'll find myself waiting on the platform of a train station. Waiting to see the slightly-frayed ends of Mary's black ribbon in her hair, or to catch a glimpse of her enchanting eyes.
A small dose of Nabokov (just over 100 pages), I'd recommend this to anyone, really. New or familiar with the Russian's writing. If you're new to Nabokov, know that his writing, as far as I've experienced, only becomes more beautiful with his age.
I'm off to daydream of Mary.
June 10, 2021
4.5 stars
My first Nabokov and I absolutely loved it. His language is exquisite, particularly in his slow unravelling of the past love affair between protagonist Ganin and the titular Mary. The last twelve pages took me more than half an hour to read because I was reading almost every single line twice. I won't spoil the ending, but I think he nailed it. This is a novel I can see myself rereading in the future, as well as many Nabos to come.
My first Nabokov and I absolutely loved it. His language is exquisite, particularly in his slow unravelling of the past love affair between protagonist Ganin and the titular Mary. The last twelve pages took me more than half an hour to read because I was reading almost every single line twice. I won't spoil the ending, but I think he nailed it. This is a novel I can see myself rereading in the future, as well as many Nabos to come.
June 25, 2018
„Когато сетне си легна и се заслуша във влаковете, пронизващи напряко тази унила къща, където живееха седморка руски изгубени сенки, целият живот му се привидя досущ като киноснимка, по време на която равнодушният статист си няма представа в какъв филм участва.“
Геният по рождение си е друга работа! Като четях, ми се струваше, че без звук се чуват възгласите ми от поредната среща с езика на Набоков. Този път в самата книга имаше описания на евентуалните ми възгласи.
„… цигулкови възклицания…“, „… намазаното с масло тенорче…“, „нисък закръглен глас…“
(отново почитания и за превода на Пенка Кънева)
Тази книга съвсем я приемам за руска. За повечето други малко нарочно (признавам, провокативно) обявявам Набоков (и) за американски писател, но сега този пансион в Берлин през 20-те си беше толкова руски, че няма накъде повече… Самата Машенка си е просто една Русия, минала млада Русия. Не ми се четеше за любовна история (не ми беше особено интересна и „задълбочена“); и добре че се оказа, че това не е точно любовна история. Заради дългогодишното изкривено използване на думата Родина у нас и в СССР никак не харесвам тази дума. Но сега я възприемах като болка — всеки един от героите в пансиона беше сякаш сянка на родината си. В опити за продължаване на живеенето, което понякога се оказва просто мърдане…
Всичко познато от езика на Набоков наистина присъства в „Машенка“. Точно като синестет пак всичко описва цветно и многоизмерно, прелива от словесни картини. Само малко по-стандартно ми се стори почти всяка глава да започва по обичайния за романите начин – с описание на обстановката или друго. Но какви описания!
„Нататък се заредиха изумително чудесни, тъжни морски дни; с двете си плъзгащо се бели крила кипналата насреща пяна все прегръщаше ли, прегръщаше парахода,който я разрязваше, а по светлите хълбоци на морските вълни меко се мяркаха зелените сенки на хората, облегнати на борда.
Скърцаше ръждивата верига на руля, две чайки се виеха около комина, а влажните им клюнове, попаднеха ли в лъча, блясваха като елмази.“
Малко по-буквално са казани някои неща за Русия, отколкото съм свикнала с по-късния Набоков, но какво, вярно си е:
„А най-важното е – бърбореше Алфьоров, - че ей нá – с Русия е свършено. Заличиха я просто така, както знаете, става, като прокараме мокра гъба по черната дъска…“
„Без нашата емигрантска любов Русия е свършена. Там никой не я обича.“
Наистина това са едни от най-ранните емигранти от Русия след онази „революция“. Толкова ранни, че чак забравят обичайното:
„Защо така никой не яде, нито пие...“
Сигурно заради мъката по
„…топлата грамада на родината…“
Все пак Набоков елегантно поднася отношението си към положението в Русия, а не с грубо политиканстване или съвсем открита мъка.
Мисля, че в тази малка книга образите на Ганин и Машенка не са развити много добре, по-скоро всички останали герои ми се виждаха достатъчно ясни, като във филм (и всички звучат като по-възрастни). Но двамата млади си изпълняват възложената от автора роля, включително с неясната си и люшкаща се любов (и първа!). Има го пак и това – финалът да е силен.
Останалото за мен – удоволствие и смях от писането на Владимир Набоков; насред празнотата:
„- Що тъй сте неженен, драги. А?
- Не съм имал случай – отвърна Ганин. – Весело ли е?
- Разкошно. Жена ми е дивна. Брюнетка е, да ви кажа, очите ѝ ей такива едни, живи…“
„… това в книгата му се стори толкова чуждо и неуместно, че я заряза посред допълнително изречение.“
„… как да укори човек гълъбовото щастие на тази безобидна двоица.“
„Дакелът ѝ меко се плъзна от кревата и се затресе в ситна истерика на преданост в краката на Ганин.“
„Беше обул бял панталон, люлякови чорапи.“
„Лежиш, плаваш и си мислиш, че скоро ще станеш, а в слънчевата локва се гонят мухи; цветно копринено клъбце като живо скоква от коленете на майка му, седнала наблизо, меко се търкулва по кехлибарения паркет…“
„… безвкусна празнота, лишена от мечтателна надежда, която придава чар на празнотата.“
Геният по рождение си е друга работа! Като четях, ми се струваше, че без звук се чуват възгласите ми от поредната среща с езика на Набоков. Този път в самата книга имаше описания на евентуалните ми възгласи.
„… цигулкови възклицания…“, „… намазаното с масло тенорче…“, „нисък закръглен глас…“
(отново почитания и за превода на Пенка Кънева)
Тази книга съвсем я приемам за руска. За повечето други малко нарочно (признавам, провокативно) обявявам Набоков (и) за американски писател, но сега този пансион в Берлин през 20-те си беше толкова руски, че няма накъде повече… Самата Машенка си е просто една Русия, минала млада Русия. Не ми се четеше за любовна история (не ми беше особено интересна и „задълбочена“); и добре че се оказа, че това не е точно любовна история. Заради дългогодишното изкривено използване на думата Родина у нас и в СССР никак не харесвам тази дума. Но сега я възприемах като болка — всеки един от героите в пансиона беше сякаш сянка на родината си. В опити за продължаване на живеенето, което понякога се оказва просто мърдане…
Всичко познато от езика на Набоков наистина присъства в „Машенка“. Точно като синестет пак всичко описва цветно и многоизмерно, прелива от словесни картини. Само малко по-стандартно ми се стори почти всяка глава да започва по обичайния за романите начин – с описание на обстановката или друго. Но какви описания!
„Нататък се заредиха изумително чудесни, тъжни морски дни; с двете си плъзгащо се бели крила кипналата насреща пяна все прегръщаше ли, прегръщаше парахода,който я разрязваше, а по светлите хълбоци на морските вълни меко се мяркаха зелените сенки на хората, облегнати на борда.
Скърцаше ръждивата верига на руля, две чайки се виеха около комина, а влажните им клюнове, попаднеха ли в лъча, блясваха като елмази.“
Малко по-буквално са казани някои неща за Русия, отколкото съм свикнала с по-късния Набоков, но какво, вярно си е:
„А най-важното е – бърбореше Алфьоров, - че ей нá – с Русия е свършено. Заличиха я просто така, както знаете, става, като прокараме мокра гъба по черната дъска…“
„Без нашата емигрантска любов Русия е свършена. Там никой не я обича.“
Наистина това са едни от най-ранните емигранти от Русия след онази „революция“. Толкова ранни, че чак забравят обичайното:
„Защо така никой не яде, нито пие...“
Сигурно заради мъката по
„…топлата грамада на родината…“
Все пак Набоков елегантно поднася отношението си към положението в Русия, а не с грубо политиканстване или съвсем открита мъка.
Мисля, че в тази малка книга образите на Ганин и Машенка не са развити много добре, по-скоро всички останали герои ми се виждаха достатъчно ясни, като във филм (и всички звучат като по-възрастни). Но двамата млади си изпълняват възложената от автора роля, включително с неясната си и люшкаща се любов (и първа!). Има го пак и това – финалът да е силен.
Останалото за мен – удоволствие и смях от писането на Владимир Набоков; насред празнотата:
„- Що тъй сте неженен, драги. А?
- Не съм имал случай – отвърна Ганин. – Весело ли е?
- Разкошно. Жена ми е дивна. Брюнетка е, да ви кажа, очите ѝ ей такива едни, живи…“
„… това в книгата му се стори толкова чуждо и неуместно, че я заряза посред допълнително изречение.“
„… как да укори човек гълъбовото щастие на тази безобидна двоица.“
„Дакелът ѝ меко се плъзна от кревата и се затресе в ситна истерика на преданост в краката на Ганин.“
„Беше обул бял панталон, люлякови чорапи.“
„Лежиш, плаваш и си мислиш, че скоро ще станеш, а в слънчевата локва се гонят мухи; цветно копринено клъбце като живо скоква от коленете на майка му, седнала наблизо, меко се търкулва по кехлибарения паркет…“
„… безвкусна празнота, лишена от мечтателна надежда, която придава чар на празнотата.“
September 7, 2021
The word from friends about "Mary" was that it's VN at his most pedestrian. And it's true his slim debut doesn't flaunt the novelistic conventions of its day as aggressively as his later work, but... pedestrian? From the start, "Mary" is ferociously accomplished on numerous linguistic and structural levels. It vividly evokes a rundown Berlin boarding house filled with motley Russian emigres, capturing the intoxicating lures and steely traps of nostalgia, the cruel ambivalences of sex, the siren song of past loves. The plot is slight but still manages to be compelling and unexpected. And there are sequences as luminous as any in the oeuvre. Chapter Three - in a mere two pages - accomplishes a literary maneuver that's pure magic, something it's hard to believe any first novelist could conjure but which serves as a shimmering preview of the career to follow.
4.5 stars
4.5 stars
November 16, 2016
Bu müthiş kitabın Türkçesini (Esra Birkan çevirisini) yıllar yıllar önce Telos basmıştı, o haliyle Maşenka tam bir küçücük fıçıcık içi dolu turşucuktu. Kim bilebilirdi ki, kitabın alışılmadık inceliğine, farklı kapağına, sayfa kalitesine bakarak tamamen şekilci bir beğeniyle satın aldığım bu kitap yıllar yıllar geçse de en sevdiğim kitap olmaktan geri durmayacak. Maşenka "az kişinin bildiği harika kitaplar"dandır. Nabokov ülkemizde çok bilinmesine rağmen Maşenka az bilinir. Maşenka, Nabokov'un takıntılı olduğu "hatırlayarak tekrar yaşama", "yaşanmışı hafızada saklı tutarak istenen zaman yaşamış kadar olma" halinin ilk ve çok değerli örneğidir. Kendinin tabiriyle Lolita'nın ayak sesleridir. Nabokov'un ne hınzır olduğunu bilirsiniz. Bu ilk romanında da tıpkı diğerlerinde olduğu gibi anlatıcıyla bir olur, onun hesaplarını yapar, onun yapacaklarını bilir, onunla kıs kıs gülersiniz. Sonra kurgu öyle bir yere gelir dayanır ki, bütün hınzırlık son bulur. Beni her romanında neredeyse hüzne boğan sonlar bu kitapta -her okumamda- tepe yapmıştır. Nabokov'un çok zeki bir yazar olduğunu düşünüyorum ve okurunun zekasını asla küçümsemediğini. Maşenka ile bize şöyle der gibidir, bakın bir aşk hikayesini nasıl anlattım. Gerçekten de daha sonraki romanlarında el atıp abartacağı ve sayısız detaya boğacağı bu ilk aşk konusu bu kitapta tam tadındadır bence. Ömrüm boyunca binlerce kitap okumaktansa, çok değerli birkaç kitabı tekrar tekrar okumayı tercih ederim. Maşenka da o kitaplardan biri benim için.
![Profile Image for Keith [on semi hiatus].](/_next/image?url=https%3A%2F%2Fi.gr-assets.com%2Fimages%2FS%2Fcompressed.photo.goodreads.com%2Fusers%2F1541020315i%2F84884940._UX200_CR0%2C0%2C200%2C200_.jpg&w=128&q=75)
August 7, 2020
Please, to all future Nabokov readers: please, start the voyage from the beginning. You've got his entire world to experience, I'm only part of the way through it ('King, Queen, Knave' is next), but from my experience thus far, enjoy the journey and start from the beginning.
July 23, 2011
Vladimir’s debut, pictured here in resplendent pink, is the slight tale of arch git Ganin remembering his first love—the obeisant Mary with the Tartar nose. The novel suffers from lingering descriptions of almost every strange nuance to each individual scene, written before Nabokovian prose was truly Nabokovian. This problem dogs some of his earlier work, among them Invitation to a Beheading and The Luzhin Defense in its snoozier moments.
This general qualm aside (well, it’s quite a large qualm, but fans, keep reading) the characters are rendered with good humour—several of them caricatures from older Russian novels (the sick poet, the bored daughter, the tedious man)—and the nostalgic throb of lost love is palpable: many fans of this book empathise with the summertime setting and the ebbing away of affection. Alas, however, the ending is an amateurish drop-off, barely worth the slog through long passages of seasonal flux and ponderous pining.
This general qualm aside (well, it’s quite a large qualm, but fans, keep reading) the characters are rendered with good humour—several of them caricatures from older Russian novels (the sick poet, the bored daughter, the tedious man)—and the nostalgic throb of lost love is palpable: many fans of this book empathise with the summertime setting and the ebbing away of affection. Alas, however, the ending is an amateurish drop-off, barely worth the slog through long passages of seasonal flux and ponderous pining.
October 12, 2022
Ευτυχώς που έγραψε ο Ναμπόκοφ για τον πρώτο έρωτα, γιατί με τον Μπέκετ είχα γίνει ελαφρώς κυνική.
Ο Ναμπόκοφ κάνει το ντεμπούτο του με την Μαίρη (Mashenka) και μας ταξιδεύει στο μακρινό παρελθόν του κεντρικού του χαρακτήρα, του Γκανίν, στη ρωσική ύπαιθρο, με τους κορυδαλλούς να κελαηδάνε και τους μεθύστακες να έχουν πέσει λιπόθυμοι στα στενά δρομάκια.
Κάπου στο Βερολίνο υπάρχει μια συμπαθητική πανσιόν όπου μένουν Ρώσοι εμιγκρέδες, κάθε δωμάτιο φιλοξενεί και κάποιον διαφορετικό ενδιαφέρον χαρακτήρα. Όλα κυλούν χωρίς εκπλήξεις μέχρι που ο Γκανίν θα κλειστεί στο ασανσέρ μαζί με τον Αλφιόροφ. Πως τα φέρνει έτσι η ζωή και η γυναίκα του Αλφιόροφ είναι ο μεγάλος, ο πρώτος, ο τρανός και μεθυστικός έρωτας του Γκανίν.
Ο Γκανίν είναι ένας άνθρωπος έξυπνος που έχει βυθιστεί για τα καλά στη βαρετή ρουτίνα, δεν τον ενθουσιάζει τίποτα πια. Κλασική συμπεριφορά ήρωα του Ναμπόκοφ, τόσο στο Μάτι, ή στη Λολίτα, ο Γκανίν πέφτει στον λαβύρινθο της συναισθηματικής του απομόνωσης, από τον οποίο δεν μπορεί να τον βγάλει η δουλειά του ή η Λουντμίλα, η ερωμένη του. Ωστόσο αυτό αλλάζει όταν πέφτει στα χέρια του η φωτογραφία της Μαίρης, που του τη δείχνει ο ανυποψίαστος και αγαθός Αλφιόροφ, ο οποίος με κεντημένη ειρωνεία θέλει μανιωδώς να πιάσει φιλίες με τον Γκανίν. Τότε ο Γκανίν φουντώνει με σκέψεις για τα περασμένα. Παντοδύναμες αναμνήσεις ξεχειλίζουν με συναισθήματα, νοσταλγεί βόλτες στην ύπαιθρο με τα ποδήλατα, γλυκά ερωτικά γράμματα με εξομολογήσεις και τρυφερά άγουρα αγγίγματα.
Και τι είναι η Μαίρη; Η Μαίρη είναι τα πάντα. Είναι ο πρώιμος ανεξίτηλος έρωτας, είναι το συγγραφικό ξάνοιγμα της ψυχής, είναι η γλυκιά νοσταλγία του εξόριστου με τις ρίζες του, η συγκίνηση των προσφύγων στη θύμηση της γενέθλιας γης, πριν χάσουν δια παντός τις ζωές τους μετά τα γεγονότα της Οκτωβριανής Επανάστασης.
Οι μέρες που ο Γκανίν πέρασε με τη Μαίρη, οι προεπαναστατικές, λέει πως ήταν οι ευτυχέστερες μέρες του. Και η ερμηνεία πως η Μαίρη είναι απλά ένα μακρινό σύμβολο έρχεται να δοκιμαστεί, όταν ο Γκανίν μαθαίνει από τον σύζυγό της, πως η Μαίρη έρχεται. Ναι, η Μαίρη έρχεται στο Βερολίνο.
Ο Ναμπόκοφ κάνει το ντεμπούτο του με την Μαίρη (Mashenka) και μας ταξιδεύει στο μακρινό παρελθόν του κεντρικού του χαρακτήρα, του Γκανίν, στη ρωσική ύπαιθρο, με τους κορυδαλλούς να κελαηδάνε και τους μεθύστακες να έχουν πέσει λιπόθυμοι στα στενά δρομάκια.
Κάπου στο Βερολίνο υπάρχει μια συμπαθητική πανσιόν όπου μένουν Ρώσοι εμιγκρέδες, κάθε δωμάτιο φιλοξενεί και κάποιον διαφορετικό ενδιαφέρον χαρακτήρα. Όλα κυλούν χωρίς εκπλήξεις μέχρι που ο Γκανίν θα κλειστεί στο ασανσέρ μαζί με τον Αλφιόροφ. Πως τα φέρνει έτσι η ζωή και η γυναίκα του Αλφιόροφ είναι ο μεγάλος, ο πρώτος, ο τρανός και μεθυστικός έρωτας του Γκανίν.
Ο Γκανίν είναι ένας άνθρωπος έξυπνος που έχει βυθιστεί για τα καλά στη βαρετή ρουτίνα, δεν τον ενθουσιάζει τίποτα πια. Κλασική συμπεριφορά ήρωα του Ναμπόκοφ, τόσο στο Μάτι, ή στη Λολίτα, ο Γκανίν πέφτει στον λαβύρινθο της συναισθηματικής του απομόνωσης, από τον οποίο δεν μπορεί να τον βγάλει η δουλειά του ή η Λουντμίλα, η ερωμένη του. Ωστόσο αυτό αλλάζει όταν πέφτει στα χέρια του η φωτογραφία της Μαίρης, που του τη δείχνει ο ανυποψίαστος και αγαθός Αλφιόροφ, ο οποίος με κεντημένη ειρωνεία θέλει μανιωδώς να πιάσει φιλίες με τον Γκανίν. Τότε ο Γκανίν φουντώνει με σκέψεις για τα περασμένα. Παντοδύναμες αναμνήσεις ξεχειλίζουν με συναισθήματα, νοσταλγεί βόλτες στην ύπαιθρο με τα ποδήλατα, γλυκά ερωτικά γράμματα με εξομολογήσεις και τρυφερά άγουρα αγγίγματα.
Και τι είναι η Μαίρη; Η Μαίρη είναι τα πάντα. Είναι ο πρώιμος ανεξίτηλος έρωτας, είναι το συγγραφικό ξάνοιγμα της ψυχής, είναι η γλυκιά νοσταλγία του εξόριστου με τις ρίζες του, η συγκίνηση των προσφύγων στη θύμηση της γενέθλιας γης, πριν χάσουν δια παντός τις ζωές τους μετά τα γεγονότα της Οκτωβριανής Επανάστασης.
Οι μέρες που ο Γκανίν πέρασε με τη Μαίρη, οι προεπαναστατικές, λέει πως ήταν οι ευτυχέστερες μέρες του. Και η ερμηνεία πως η Μαίρη είναι απλά ένα μακρινό σύμβολο έρχεται να δοκιμαστεί, όταν ο Γκανίν μαθαίνει από τον σύζυγό της, πως η Μαίρη έρχεται. Ναι, η Μαίρη έρχεται στο Βερολίνο.
November 15, 2021
Τρίτο βιβλίο του Ναμπόκοφ που διαβάζω, μετά το "Γέλιο στο σκοτάδι" που διάβασα τον Νοέμβριο του 2011 (δηλαδή έντεκα χρόνια πριν!) και το "Το μάτι" που διάβασα τον Ιούλιο του 2017, και αυτό που έχω να πω (ή μάλλον να γράψω), είναι το εξής: Γιατί στο διάτανο δεν έχω διαβάσει περισσότερα βιβλία αυτού του συγγραφέα; Μα, είναι τόσο μα τόσο καλός, η γραφή του τόσο υπέροχη, με τέτοια υψηλή ποιότητα λοιπόν, αλλά και με τόσα βιβλία του που έχω αγοράσει, θα έπρεπε να έχω ξεκοκαλίσει το έργο του. Τέλος πάντων, ποτέ δεν είναι αργά, χαίρομαι που διάβασα το "Mary", που είναι και το πρώτο μυθιστόρημα που έγραψε ο Ναμπόκοφ, και που μπορεί να είναι αρκετά σύντομο και απλό στη δομή και την πλοκή του, όμως καταφέρνει και προσφέρει αναγνωστική απόλαυση λόγω της γραφής, καθώς και ποικίλα συναισθήματα (προσωπικά με μελαγχόλησε ολίγον τι), ενώ σίγουρα αποτελεί ένα πειστικό προοίμιο του μετέπειτα τεράστιου συγγραφικού του έργου.
September 15, 2019
Cuốn sách khiến tôi nhớ tới "Những đêm trắng" của Dostoevsky, khi những bậc vĩ nhân còn trẻ và còn vương nhiều ngây thơ thuần khiết. Nhưng nếu như cuốn của Dos khiến tôi khá ngỡ ngàng rằng Dos từng có thời như vậy thì ở Mashenka, cuốn tiểu thuyết đầu tay của Nabokov, tôi vẫn nhận ra rõ ràng đó là Nabokov, ngay từ trang đầu. Vẫn cảm thức tha hương, vẫn lối viết cầu kỳ và vẫn cực kỳ độc ác với các nhân vật.
Nếu không biết trước về lai lịch các cuốn của Nabokov thì tôi đã nghĩ cuốn "Tiếng cười trong bóng tối" mới là tiểu thuyết đầu tay còn Mashenka là ở một chặng giữa bơ vơ nào đó. Nhưng vì đã biết trước nên khi mới đọc, tôi cứ mang cái định kiến rằng Nabokov ở đây vẫn còn non tay hơn so với sau này, vẫn chưa có cái sâu và sắc trong miêu tả. Thế nên, vào đầu sách, tôi đã đi trong trạng thái hờ hững, để rồi, bỗng nhiên, không được báo trước, tôi bị kéo lại bất ngờ giữa đường, ném thẳng xuống hang thỏ, ngỡ ngàng và đau đớn. Nabokov luôn phi thường trong việc tạo những khoảnh khắc nhói lòng, sẽ nhiều lần trong đời sống lại trong ta, biến thành ký ức của chính ta.
Trong lúc đọc Mashenka, cũng nhiều lần tôi có cảm giác đây chính là mối tình của Humbert với Annabel. Chỉ riêng cái khái niệm mối tình đầu vốn đã đẹp. Với tôi, nó không có nghĩa là đầu, mà là day dứt nhất. Tựu trung thì Nabokov viết truyện tình vẫn là số 1 í hic hic đọc xong lại bị ám :((
Nếu không biết trước về lai lịch các cuốn của Nabokov thì tôi đã nghĩ cuốn "Tiếng cười trong bóng tối" mới là tiểu thuyết đầu tay còn Mashenka là ở một chặng giữa bơ vơ nào đó. Nhưng vì đã biết trước nên khi mới đọc, tôi cứ mang cái định kiến rằng Nabokov ở đây vẫn còn non tay hơn so với sau này, vẫn chưa có cái sâu và sắc trong miêu tả. Thế nên, vào đầu sách, tôi đã đi trong trạng thái hờ hững, để rồi, bỗng nhiên, không được báo trước, tôi bị kéo lại bất ngờ giữa đường, ném thẳng xuống hang thỏ, ngỡ ngàng và đau đớn. Nabokov luôn phi thường trong việc tạo những khoảnh khắc nhói lòng, sẽ nhiều lần trong đời sống lại trong ta, biến thành ký ức của chính ta.
Trong lúc đọc Mashenka, cũng nhiều lần tôi có cảm giác đây chính là mối tình của Humbert với Annabel. Chỉ riêng cái khái niệm mối tình đầu vốn đã đẹp. Với tôi, nó không có nghĩa là đầu, mà là day dứt nhất. Tựu trung thì Nabokov viết truyện tình vẫn là số 1 í hic hic đọc xong lại bị ám :((
March 18, 2024
immagina essere vera e nabokov ti dedica questo libro…
January 20, 2010
بعد از فراز خنده در تاریکی و بعد از اوج لولیتا با سومین کتابی که از نابوکوف خوندم سقوط کردم... چقدر کتاب ضعیفی بود... همونطور که ذکر شده تجربه ی سالهای خام دستیش هست...به هیچ کس توصیه اش نمیکنم
April 2, 2018
For a book called Mary there’s precious little Mary in it. Mary is—or rather was (time has marched on)—a fifteen-year-old girl the novel’s protagonist fell in love with when they both lived in Russia. Years later much has happened. For starters Lev Glebovich Ganin (the name on our hero’s fake Polish passport) has relocated to Berlin and it’s been a long time since he’s had even a letter from Mary. He’s currently holed-up in a pension, a guest house offering full board run by the diminutive Frau Dorn, along with a motley crew of ex-pats: Podtyagin (an old poet on his last legs), Klara (a typist with a bust deserving of several mentions in the text), Kolin and Gornotsvetov (two giggly ballet dancers) and, most importantly, the effusive Aleksey Ivanovich Alfyorov who, by pure chance (well, author’s contrivance), Ganin discovers is now married to his Mary whose arrival in Berlin is due in a week’s time. From that moment he can think of nothing else.
Ganin is, we learn, not as straightforward a character as he first appears…
Of course the more we learn about their relationship, the meetings and letters and phone calls, the more it does seem that he might have a shot. War seems to have gotten in the way:
This is a story about first love but it’s not really a recounting of first love but a tale of the lasting effects first love can have. Of course, in the course of the book we do find out how they got to know each other and I couldn’t help feel for him when I read:
The book’s main weakness, however, is not something Nabokov would work out: his descriptions although creative and inventive and, well, descriptive can drag on and slow down the narrative. You can maybe argue the case for them in a long novel but not in something this slight. It’s a shame and it would’ve been nice when the book was published in English in 1970 if he’d maybe trimmed it a bit (like Beckett did four years later with Mercier and Camier) but I can see why he’d leave it too.
Ganin is, we learn, not as straightforward a character as he first appears…
[H]is personality was surrounded by mystery. And no wonder: he never told anybody about his life, his wanderings and his adventures of recent years—even he himself remembered his escape from Russia as though in a dream, a dream that was like a faintly sparkling sea mist.…but little by little a picture emerges and it all revolves around his relationship with Mary. She sounds like the love of his life. What could possibly have happened to drive a wedge between them? Whatever it was none of that seems to matter to Ganin. He’s quite convinced that once he gets Alfyorov out of the way—no, he doesn’t murder him but he does get him blind drunk the night before his wife’s arrival—Mary will fall into his arms and be perfectly willing to transfer to another train taking them off to a rosy future together. Like that’s going to happen.
Of course the more we learn about their relationship, the meetings and letters and phone calls, the more it does seem that he might have a shot. War seems to have gotten in the way:
Perekop tottered and fell. Wounded in the head, Ganin had been evacuated to Simferopol; and a week later, sick and listless, cut off from his unit which had retreated to Feodosia, he had been caught up in the mad, nightmarish torrent of the civilian evacuation. In the fields and on the slopes of the Heights of Inkerman, where once the uniforms of Queen Victoria’s soldiers had flashed scarlet among the smoke of toy cannon, the lovely and wild Crimean spring was already blossoming. Smoothly undulating, the milky-white road flowed on, the open cover of the car rattled as the wheels bounced over bumps and holes—and the feeling of speed, the feeling of spring, of space and the pale green of the hills, suddenly fused into a delicious joy which made it possible to forget that this light-hearted road was the way leading out of Russia.These things happen. Families get torn apart. Live goes on and most of us don’t get second chances. But if this love is all it appears to be to Ganin why not? When Penguin published their Great Loves collection they included Mary (with one of the ugliest covers ever) alongside the likes of The Virgin and the Gypsy by D.H. Lawrence, Eros Unbound by Anaïs Nin and Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin. Maybe this was going to one of the great unsung love stories. Or maybe not. This is Nabokov after all, the guy who some thirty years later would go on to write Lolita. It takes time to refine a writer and so I was only expecting traces of the Nabokov I’ve got to know of the years but I was a little surprised to see how much was familiar; juvenilia this is not.
This is a story about first love but it’s not really a recounting of first love but a tale of the lasting effects first love can have. Of course, in the course of the book we do find out how they got to know each other and I couldn’t help feel for him when I read:
She lived in Voskresensk and would go out for a walk in the deserted sunny evening at exactly the same time as he. Ganin noticed her from a distance and at once felt a chill round his heart. She walked briskly, blue-skirted, her hands in the pockets of her blue serge jacket under which was a white blouse. As Ganin caught up with her, like a soft breeze, he saw only the folds of blue stuff stretching and rippling across her back, and the black silk bow like two outstretched wings. As he glided past he never looked into her face but pretended to be absorbed in cycling, although a minute earlier, imagining their meeting, he had sworn that he would smile at her and greet her.Been there. Done that. I was quite a bit younger than Lev when I fell in love for the first time but this book’s set in the 1920s and we have to remember how much longer it too kids to grow up back then. But it doesn’t matter. I remember my Mary and how I felt a few years ago when I learned she died. The sense of loss was quite disproportionate; this was a woman I’d not even nodded to on the street in over twenty years. I really got how Ganin could’ve lost himself in memories and fantasies that week but as the pages kept dwindling I couldn’t help wondering what the hell Nabokov was going to do. The climax when it came was a surprise but it shouldn’t have been. Not really. I mean there were so many things he could’ve done. She could’ve got off the train and walked right by him or seen him and changed direction to ignore him or she might’ve put on five or six stones and he might’ve ended up diving into the Gents to avoid her. Or they might’ve spoken, politely like old friends and parted without him giving away what his plans had been. It’s none of those but it was an ending that made me want to go back and reassess what I’d just read to see what I’d missed. Because surely there were clues. Nabokov likes his clues and, what we call these days, his Easter eggs. (To that end you might enjoy reading ‘Repetition and Ambiguity: Reconsidering Mary’ by Akiko Nakata.)
The book’s main weakness, however, is not something Nabokov would work out: his descriptions although creative and inventive and, well, descriptive can drag on and slow down the narrative. You can maybe argue the case for them in a long novel but not in something this slight. It’s a shame and it would’ve been nice when the book was published in English in 1970 if he’d maybe trimmed it a bit (like Beckett did four years later with Mercier and Camier) but I can see why he’d leave it too.
January 28, 2011
It's not like the Nabokov I know to write a Russian book, but despite its Berlin setting, this is a very Russian book. There's a Dostoyevsky-like dinner scene, mentions of revolutions and Cossacks, stealing money from drawers and of course plenty of drunkenness. It's strange to get so much of it from an author that despite his origins, feels so American. Still, amidst all the uncharacteristic Russianness, there is a definite hint of what was to come in later Nabokov novels.
There's some of the cynicism:
There's some of the cynicism:
"Vulgar little man," thought Ganin as he watched Alfyorov's twitching beard. "I bet his wife's frisky. It's a positive sin not to be unfaithful to a man like him."The cleverness:
Back in his room he tried to read, but he found the contents of the book so alien and inappropriate that he abandoned it in the middle of a subordinate clause. He was in the kind of mood that he called ‘dispersion of the will.’And of course the descriptions that you have to read twice, both to understand them and to re-experience the chills you got reading them the first time:
And in those streets, now as wide as shiny black seas, at that late hour when the last beer-hall has closed, and a native of Russia, abandoning sleep, hatless and coatless under an old mackintosh, walks in a clairvoyant trance; at that late hour down those wide streets passed worlds utterly alien to each other: no longer a reveler, a woman, or simply a passer-by, but each one a wholly isolated world, each a totality of marvels and evil.In short, it's early Nabokov but it's still Nabokov and as such, will bear reading and re-reading.
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