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sigmanny's review against another edition
3.75
an “About the Author” section at the end of an autobiography is crazy
sherwoodreads's review against another edition
This exquisitely written memoir evokes life before and after the Bolshevik revolution, and how the author, as a youth, coped with violent change not just of government, but of paradigm, and above all of character. He is aware even as a child that many of the people he knew were caught in amber--people of their time, unwilling or unable to cope with change.
Nabokov here, as elsewhere, exhibits the art of characterization; I regard Nabokov to be Henry James' superior, for all the latter's ability to observe minutae, because with James, I get the sense that he is imposing types on people, whether real or non. His women all prove to be weak because they are women. Men are happy until women destroy them. Gross generalization, I know, but that's the sense I get from reading James in and out of fiction. With Nabokov, each person is unique, good and bad, and though they may exhibit customs common to gender, I never get the sense that "all women are this" and "all men are that." He's also merciless at times: it is no accident that he adored collecting and mounting moths and butterflies.
Yet he also exhibits an innate generosity that celebrates the best of the human spirit. It's this book that contains one of my favorite quotes of all time:
It is certainly not then--not in dreams--but when one is wide awake, at moments of robust joy and achievement, on the highest terrace of consciousness, that mortality has a chance to peer beyond its own limits, from the mast, from the past and its castle tower. And although nothing much can be seen through the mist, there is somehow the blissful feeling that one is looking in the right direction.
Nabokov here, as elsewhere, exhibits the art of characterization; I regard Nabokov to be Henry James' superior, for all the latter's ability to observe minutae, because with James, I get the sense that he is imposing types on people, whether real or non. His women all prove to be weak because they are women. Men are happy until women destroy them. Gross generalization, I know, but that's the sense I get from reading James in and out of fiction. With Nabokov, each person is unique, good and bad, and though they may exhibit customs common to gender, I never get the sense that "all women are this" and "all men are that." He's also merciless at times: it is no accident that he adored collecting and mounting moths and butterflies.
Yet he also exhibits an innate generosity that celebrates the best of the human spirit. It's this book that contains one of my favorite quotes of all time:
It is certainly not then--not in dreams--but when one is wide awake, at moments of robust joy and achievement, on the highest terrace of consciousness, that mortality has a chance to peer beyond its own limits, from the mast, from the past and its castle tower. And although nothing much can be seen through the mist, there is somehow the blissful feeling that one is looking in the right direction.
c_ward68's review against another edition
4.0
Nobody does it better, though the chapters on lepidoptery were uninteresting in the extreme
spaceisavacuum's review against another edition
challenging
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
3.0
moyo pochtenietse… he’s the kind of writer who’d remark on the etymology of the Tsetse fly with allusion that that suffix ending. Ehh, Nabokov is too pretentious for me… like I’m not big on info dumping, in a science fiction context Yes Very, but about these things like HIS genealogy I don’t care. 🥱 Looking back at my family photographs, I think I’ll try and do something with them. My great great grandfather for instance, is a stalwart chap, far overbearing the reach of his progeny, and little do I know of him, except we’re Swedish. My brother always says “Your Swedish?”
Anyway Nabokov visited the same butterfly garden we did in Portal, Arizona.. along the Chiricahua mtn. range. For him it was the summer of 1953, for us it was the 2000s, and by then a rather punier affair but maybe it wasn’t seasonable. Whatever, our bailiwick was the snake 🐍 Cause we’re a touch on the brutal side? And they’re just simpler, to photograph & to feed. Though it’s interesting they can study the larval caterpillar and its metamorphosis in its cocoon. I’m not sure how I feel about butterflies, 🦋 like their beauty lasts but for an instant. 🦋
“There is, it would seem, in the dimensional scale of the world a kind of delicate meeting place between imagination and knowledge, a point, arrived at by diminishing large things and enlarging small ones, that is intrinsically artistic.”
Take a 🔬 or take a 🔭 and you observe the natural world, take a candid shot with a 📷 and it’s meant to be natural. Afterall, we are organic lifeforms too right? But it only makes sense to me, in some grand vision of everything coming together, everything is art. Art doesn’t ever need to be taken so seriously, Science does. Science explains the phenomenon of life; Anything written or drawn by mankind is that maker’s design. Science is god’s design, the art of god.
James Franco: You don’t like art? Art is its most beautiful and pure form, in my taste, without the commercialism; so it can stay true to the artists who make it for them and uncritically so.
“The snow is real, though, and as I bend to it and scoop up a handful, sixty years crumble to glittering frost-dust between my fingers.” ❄️ ❄️ ❄️
Anyway Nabokov visited the same butterfly garden we did in Portal, Arizona.. along the Chiricahua mtn. range. For him it was the summer of 1953, for us it was the 2000s, and by then a rather punier affair but maybe it wasn’t seasonable. Whatever, our bailiwick was the snake 🐍 Cause we’re a touch on the brutal side? And they’re just simpler, to photograph & to feed. Though it’s interesting they can study the larval caterpillar and its metamorphosis in its cocoon. I’m not sure how I feel about butterflies, 🦋 like their beauty lasts but for an instant. 🦋
“There is, it would seem, in the dimensional scale of the world a kind of delicate meeting place between imagination and knowledge, a point, arrived at by diminishing large things and enlarging small ones, that is intrinsically artistic.”
Take a 🔬 or take a 🔭 and you observe the natural world, take a candid shot with a 📷 and it’s meant to be natural. Afterall, we are organic lifeforms too right? But it only makes sense to me, in some grand vision of everything coming together, everything is art. Art doesn’t ever need to be taken so seriously, Science does. Science explains the phenomenon of life; Anything written or drawn by mankind is that maker’s design. Science is god’s design, the art of god.
James Franco: You don’t like art? Art is its most beautiful and pure form, in my taste, without the commercialism; so it can stay true to the artists who make it for them and uncritically so.
“The snow is real, though, and as I bend to it and scoop up a handful, sixty years crumble to glittering frost-dust between my fingers.” ❄️ ❄️ ❄️
stevenminer3's review against another edition
reflective
slow-paced
3.5
Nabakov's autobiography is filled with remarkable flashes of insight, mostly contained in images that have remained meaningful in this great author's memory. Between these flashes are passages that hold little interest for me, I must admit. Nabakov's imagination is constrained by the requirements of the genre. When his autobiography is most novel-like is when it is strongest. Recommended for the literary-minded and those interested in the mind that produced Lolita.
shimmery's review against another edition
4.0
At the end of his memoir, Nabokov has taken care to include an appendix which is a rather facetious review of the book. He writes, ‘Nabokov’s method is to explore the remotest regions of his past life for what may be termed thematic trails or currents. Once found, this or that theme is followed up through the years.’
He sums up the book accurately here - the start is largely taken up by beautiful images taken from his privileged upbringing, both in Russia and around Europe. These are looked back on with a nostalgia made more poignant by his exile and inability to return to his homeland.
What I love about Nabokov is his eye for detail and his sense of humour and this is a beautiful example of both. He is able to build portraits of people so well, with perfectly chosen adjectives to add a bit of humour to his descriptions of an old governess or tutor. He never takes himself too seriously and indeed often makes fun of his past self.
As well as being an enjoyable read it’s also an informative one - it provides an insight in to not only early 20th century Russia but also the other European countries Nabokov travelled to in that time (France, Germany and England). The period the book covers is a a hugely historic one. His writing on what it is like to be an immigrant fleeing from an unsafe country is perhaps more relevant today than ever.
It’s not exactly a page turner, and it will probably have you looking up a word every other page (Nabokov was absolutely obsessed with vocabulary), but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
He sums up the book accurately here - the start is largely taken up by beautiful images taken from his privileged upbringing, both in Russia and around Europe. These are looked back on with a nostalgia made more poignant by his exile and inability to return to his homeland.
What I love about Nabokov is his eye for detail and his sense of humour and this is a beautiful example of both. He is able to build portraits of people so well, with perfectly chosen adjectives to add a bit of humour to his descriptions of an old governess or tutor. He never takes himself too seriously and indeed often makes fun of his past self.
As well as being an enjoyable read it’s also an informative one - it provides an insight in to not only early 20th century Russia but also the other European countries Nabokov travelled to in that time (France, Germany and England). The period the book covers is a a hugely historic one. His writing on what it is like to be an immigrant fleeing from an unsafe country is perhaps more relevant today than ever.
It’s not exactly a page turner, and it will probably have you looking up a word every other page (Nabokov was absolutely obsessed with vocabulary), but I enjoyed it nonetheless.