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17 of 21 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
The Delight of Nabokov (Reading is Fun), 20 Nov 2009
I hope it will not be misunderstood if I say I'm glad Vladimir Nabokov didn't complete this novel. I love it, just the way you are.
The fragmented, the untidy, the smudged, the not-quite-laid-down-yet, the eccentric, the unfinished, up-in-the-air, down-in-the-dumps... are exactly the qualities of language that get me excited. Especially when the novel is dealing with death, self-erasure, deletion, writing, and the-state-of-having-a-massive-stomach-shaped-gap-at-the-centre-of-your-self-assessment.
Nabokov fans need not worry. There are exquisite contortions of expression (that's at least 1/3rd of the reason why we read him, right?) aplenty (especially earlier on in the novel.)
Why else do we read him, again? Oh yes, his riotous wit, deliciously exquisitely thin irony and bald brave explorations of undesired desire and sexually-chagrined foibles. Well that's all here too.
A letter to Chip Kidd: You're the best damn book-designer out there. You can see how striking, classy, disconcerting and subtly faded the dustjacket is. Slip it off and you have a pencil-smudged hard cover to die for. It's fun. Inside the pages include the index cards Nabokov composed on, alongside a plain-text version. It's fascinating, stunning and beautiful and seductive and playful and every page felt like an event. It felt like the novel was coming together, emerging as I read. It is a masterstroke to see the smudges on the reverse of the index cards; what a little insignificant impression we leave behind us.
Dmitri's introduction is interesting. I found the descriptions of Nabokov's last while a little upsetting to be honest. Especially the slightly bizarre tale about him falling while butterfly hunting and returning with his shorts askew to the hotel. I don't know, I just so love those old photographs of a curious, mad, confident playful man with a net.
Laura sits beside Transparent Things, the one about the beheading, the eye, Sebastien Knight, Bend Sinister and Mary, Pnin, and The Enchanter among Nabokov's slighter works. But presented like this there is a temptation to read it as a more ambitious work, perhaps alongside Pale Fire, Lolita,, ADA and Look at The Harlequins. I forgot King Queen Knave that is great too, and sort of middling in length. Just speaking of size. It's my sense that Laura will take its place alongside these great books. I mean, it deserves to. It's much more than a well-presented curiousity. It is in a sense a culmination of Nabokov's art- a last foray into the 'venn-diagram'ish themes of power, control, writing, desire and narcissism. But it's a novel that resists culmination, fading away, effacing and evading instead.
This is a very moving and funny and intriguing book.
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