Subject
Re: Distortions and slanting views
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Bruce Stone: "...this special "inconclusiveness" of Nabokov's fiction reminds me of the passage in Invitation to a Beheading [...] "You cannot see anything. I tried it too." N's fiction often frustrates the search for a clear, unobstructed view...in lieu of ontological stabilty. ...Cincinnatus does...catch glimpses of what's out there--even if these are only "partial conclusions." [...] "... if we make the effort to track the distortions in the text, to arrive at something closer to the truth, then the novel has in some sense visited this problem of perception upon its readers[....]In Lolita, this sharing in the crisis of perception is especially disconcerting, because in this regard Humbert's insanity is representative of a larger, perhaps universal dilemma. ...we should note that this existential evasiveness can be pernicious or benign, depending on the context. In any case, Nabokov's own pronouncements about reality--for example, that it begins "to rot and stink" unless its surface is animated by subjective perception--seem to cover both his fictional and our "real" worlds."
JM: Anamorphic converging mirrors for outspreading evils don't always exist, even in novels whose structure establishes definite beginnings and definite ends. Perhaps an 'unobstructed view' and 'ontological stability' (isn't this search related to the Aristotelic definition "Veritas est adaequatio intellectus et rei"? ) are seldom attainable.
Existential evasiveness, as you said, can be pernicious or benign. But when is the time ripe to take an attitude and interfere? In B.S. Nabokov intervened to save Krug by visiting madness upon him, and granting him a glimpse into his creator's "paradise."
Trying to get a digital short-cut to your N-quote, I reached a possible "VN-sighting".
I found the quote: "Average reality begins to rot and stink as soon as the act of individual creation ceases to animate a subjectively perceived texture." (Vladimir Nabokov, from an interview)" in an article by Joyce Carol Oates in ".The Death Throes of Romanticism: The Poetry of Sylvia Plath" THE DEATH THROES OF ROMANTICISM: The Poetry of Sylvia ... work.restory.net/.../Oates%20- ...
I discovered it, at last,* with no need to browse thru the body of his published strong opinions: Nabokov's interview. (09) BBC-2 [1968] www.kulichki.com/moshkow/.../Inter09.txtEm cache -
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* - There is a sense, in all your fiction, of the imagined being so much truer than boring old reality. Do you see the categories of imagination, dream, and reality as distinct and, if so, in what way? Your use of the word "reality" perplexes me. To be sure, there is an average reality, perceived by all of us, but that is not true reality: it is only the reality of general ideas, conventional forms of humdrummery, current editorials. Now if you mean by "old reality" the so-called "realism" of old novels, the easy platitudes of Balzac or Somerset Maugham or D. H. Lawrence-- to take some especially depressing examples-- then you are right in suggesting that the reality faked by a
mediocre performer is boring, and that imaginary worlds acquire by contrast a dreamy and unreal aspect. Paradoxically, the only real, authentic worlds are, of course, those that seem unusual. When my fancies will have been sufficiently imitated, they, too, will enter the common domain of average reality, which will be false, too, but within a new context which we cannot yet guess. Average reality begins to rot and stink as soon as the act of individual creation ceases to animate a subjectively perceived texture.
Would it be fair to say that you see life as a very funny but cruel joke? Your term "life" is used in a sense which I cannot apply to a manifold shimmer. Whose life? What life? Life does not exist without a possessive epithet...My own life has been incomparably happier and healthier than that of Genghis Khan...As to the lives of my characters, not all are grotesque and not all are tragic: Fyodor in The Gift is blessed with a faithful love and an early recognition of his genius; John Shade in Pale Fire leads an intense inner existence, far removed from what you call a joke. You must be confusing me with Dostoevski.
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JM: Anamorphic converging mirrors for outspreading evils don't always exist, even in novels whose structure establishes definite beginnings and definite ends. Perhaps an 'unobstructed view' and 'ontological stability' (isn't this search related to the Aristotelic definition "Veritas est adaequatio intellectus et rei"? ) are seldom attainable.
Existential evasiveness, as you said, can be pernicious or benign. But when is the time ripe to take an attitude and interfere? In B.S. Nabokov intervened to save Krug by visiting madness upon him, and granting him a glimpse into his creator's "paradise."
Trying to get a digital short-cut to your N-quote, I reached a possible "VN-sighting".
I found the quote: "Average reality begins to rot and stink as soon as the act of individual creation ceases to animate a subjectively perceived texture." (Vladimir Nabokov, from an interview)" in an article by Joyce Carol Oates in ".The Death Throes of Romanticism: The Poetry of Sylvia Plath" THE DEATH THROES OF ROMANTICISM: The Poetry of Sylvia ... work.restory.net/.../Oates%20- ...
I discovered it, at last,* with no need to browse thru the body of his published strong opinions: Nabokov's interview. (09) BBC-2 [1968] www.kulichki.com/moshkow/.../Inter09.txtEm cache -
............................................................................................................
* - There is a sense, in all your fiction, of the imagined being so much truer than boring old reality. Do you see the categories of imagination, dream, and reality as distinct and, if so, in what way? Your use of the word "reality" perplexes me. To be sure, there is an average reality, perceived by all of us, but that is not true reality: it is only the reality of general ideas, conventional forms of humdrummery, current editorials. Now if you mean by "old reality" the so-called "realism" of old novels, the easy platitudes of Balzac or Somerset Maugham or D. H. Lawrence-- to take some especially depressing examples-- then you are right in suggesting that the reality faked by a
mediocre performer is boring, and that imaginary worlds acquire by contrast a dreamy and unreal aspect. Paradoxically, the only real, authentic worlds are, of course, those that seem unusual. When my fancies will have been sufficiently imitated, they, too, will enter the common domain of average reality, which will be false, too, but within a new context which we cannot yet guess. Average reality begins to rot and stink as soon as the act of individual creation ceases to animate a subjectively perceived texture.
Would it be fair to say that you see life as a very funny but cruel joke? Your term "life" is used in a sense which I cannot apply to a manifold shimmer. Whose life? What life? Life does not exist without a possessive epithet...My own life has been incomparably happier and healthier than that of Genghis Khan...As to the lives of my characters, not all are grotesque and not all are tragic: Fyodor in The Gift is blessed with a faithful love and an early recognition of his genius; John Shade in Pale Fire leads an intense inner existence, far removed from what you call a joke. You must be confusing me with Dostoevski.
Search archive with Google:
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Contact the Editors: mailto:nabokv-l@utk.edu,nabokv-l@holycross.edu
Visit Zembla: http://www.libraries.psu.edu/nabokov/zembla.htm
View Nabokv-L policies: http://web.utk.edu/~sblackwe/EDNote.htm
Visit "Nabokov Online Journal:" http://www.nabokovonline.com
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