According to Kinbote (in VN's novel Pale Fire, 1962, Shade’s mad commentator who imagines that he is Charles the Beloved, the last self-exiled king of Zembla), in a skit performed by a group of drama students he was pictured as a pompous woman hater with a German accent, constantly quoting Housman and nibbling raw carrots:
Oh, there were many such incidents. In a skit performed by a group of drama students I was pictured as a pompous woman hater with a German accent, constantly quoting Housman and nibbling raw carrots; and a week before Shade's death, a certain ferocious lady at whose club I had refused to speak on the subject of "The Hally Vally" (as she put it, confusing Odin's Hall with the title of a Finnish epic), said to me in the middle of a grocery store, "You are a remarkably disagreeable person. I fail to see how John and Sybil can stand you," and, exasperated by my polite smile, she added: "What's more, you are insane." But let me not pursue the tabulation of nonsense. Whatever was thought, whatever was said, I had my full reward in John's friendship. This friendship was the more precious for its tenderness being intentionally concealed, especially when we were not alone, by that gruffness which stems from what can be termed the dignity of the heart. His whole being constituted a mask. John Shade's physical appearance was so little in keeping with the harmonies hiving in the man, that one felt inclined to dismiss it as a coarse disguise or passing fashion; for if the fashions of the Romantic Age subtilized a poet's manliness by baring his attractive neck, pruning his profile and reflecting a mountain lake in his oval gaze, present-day bards, owing perhaps to better opportunities of aging, look like gorillas or vultures. My sublime neighbor's face had something about it that might have appealed to the eye, had it been only leonine or only Iroquoian; but unfortunately, by combining the two it merely reminded one of a fleshy Hogarthian tippler of indeterminate sex. His misshapen body, that gray mop of abundant hair, the yellow nails of his pudgy fingers, the bags under his lusterless eyes, were only intelligible if regarded as the waste products eliminated from his intrinsic self by the same forces of perfection which purifed and chiseled his verse. He was his own cancellation. (Foreword)
In a letter of April 20, 1904, to his wife (Olga Knipper, a leading actress of the Moscow Art Theater) Chekhov (who had less than three months of life and whom Shade, in a conversation with Kinbote, listed among Russian humorists) compares life to a carrot:
Ты спрашиваешь: что такое жизнь? Это всё равно, что спросить: что такое морковка? Морковка есть морковка, и больше ничего неизвестно.
You ask "What is life?" That is the same as asking "What is a carrot?" A carrot is a carrot and we know nothing more.
In Robert Francis' poem The Mouse Whose Name Is Time the word "nibble" is repeated seven times:
The Mouse whose name is Time
Is out of sound and sight.
He nibbles at the day
And nibbles at the night.
He nibbles at the summer
Till all of it is gone.
He nibbles at the seashore.
He nibbles at the moon.
Yet no man not a seer,
No woman not a sibyl
Can ever ever hear
Or see him nibble, nibble.
And whence or how he comes
And how or where he goes
Nobody dead remembers,
Nobody living knows.
"No woman not a sibyl" brings to mind Sybil Shade (the poet's wife). Kinbote is a confirmed vegetarian. In his poem The Seed Eaters Robert Francis mentions the vegetarian birds:
The seed eaters, the vegetarian birds,
Redpolls, grosbeaks, crossbills, finches, siskins,
Fly south to winter in our north, so making
A sort of Florida of our best blizzards.
Weed seeds and seeds of pine cones are their pillage,
Alder and birch catkins such vegetable
Odds and ends as the winged keys of maple
As well as roadside sumac, red-plush-seeded.
Hi! with a bounce in snowflake flocks come juncos
As if a hand had flipped them and tree sparrows,
Now nip and tuck and playing tag, now squatting
All weather-proofed and feather-fluffed on snow.
Hard fare, full feast, I'll say, deep cold, high spirits.
Here's Christmas to Candlemas on a bunting's budget.
From this old seed eater with his beans, his soybeans,
Cracked corn, cracked wheat, peanuts and split peas, hail!
The epigraph to Pale Fire is from Boswell's "Life of Samuel Johnson:"
This reminds me of the ludicrous account he gave Mr. Langton, of the despicable state of a young gentleman of good family. "Sir, when I heard of him last, he was running about town shooting cats." And then in a sort of kindly reverie, he bethought himself of his own favorite cat, and said, "But Hodge shan't be shot: no, no, Hodge shall not be shot."
--JAMES BOSWELL, the Life of Samuel Johnson
In his commentary Kinbote mentions a cat-and-mouse game in the second line of Shade's poem The Sacred Tree:
A hickory. Our poet shared with the English masters the noble knack of transplanting trees into verse with their sap and shade. Many years ago Disa, our King's Queen, whose favorite trees were the jacaranda and the maidenhair, copied out in her album a quatrain from John Shade's collection of short poems Hebe's Cup, which I cannot refrain from quoting here (from a letter I received on April 6, 1959, from southern France):
THE SACRED TREE
The gingko leaf, in golden hue, when shed,
A muscat grape,
Is an old-fashioned butterfly, ill-spread
In shape.
When the new Episcopal church in New Wye (see note to line 549) was built, the bulldozers spared an arc of those sacred trees planted by a landscaper of genius (Repburg) at the end of the so-called Shakespeare Avenue, on the campus. I do not know if it is relevant or not but there is a cat-and-mouse game in the second line, and "tree" in Zemblan is grados. (note to Line 49)
Gingo Biloba (1815) is a poem by J. W. Goethe included in West–östlicher Divan ("The West-Eastern Divan," 1819):
Dieses Baumes Blatt, der von Osten
Meinem Garten anvertraut,
Gibt geheimen Sinn zu kosten,
Wie's den Wissenden erbaut.
Ist es ein lebendig Wesen,
Das sich in sich selbst getrennt?
Sind es zwei, die sich erlesen,
Daß man sie als eines kennt?
Solche Fragen zu erwidern
Fand ich wohl den rechten Sinn.
Fühlst du nicht an meinen Liedern,
Daß ich eins und doppelt bin?
This leaf from a tree in the East,
Has been given to my garden.
It reveals a certain secret,
Which pleases me and thoughtful people.
Does it represent One living creature
Which has divided itself?
Or are these Two, which have decided,
That they should be as One?
To reply to such a Question,
I found the right answer:
Do you notice in my songs and verses
That I am One and Two?
In his poem Selige Sehnsucht ("The Holy Longing," 1814) Goethe compares man to a butterfly lured by the fire:
Sagt es niemand, nur den Weisen,
Weil die Menge gleich verhöhnet,
Das Lebendge will ich preisen
Das nach Flammentod sich sehnet.
In der Liebesnachte Kühlung,
Die dich zeugte, wo du zeugtest,
Überfällt dich fremde Fühlung
Wenn die stille Kerze leuchtet.
Nicht mehr bleibest du umfangen
In der Finsternis Beschattung,
Und dich reisset neu Verlangen
Auf zu höherer Begattung.
Keine Ferne macht dich schwierig,
Kommst geflogen und gebannt,
Und zuletzt, des Lichts begierig,
Bist du Schmetterling verbrannt.
Und solang du das nich hast,
Dieses: Stirb und werde!
Bist du nur ein trüber Gast
Auf der dunklen Erde.
Tell a wise person or else keep silent
for those who do not understand
will mock it right away.
I praise what is truly alive
And what longs to be burned to death.
In the calm water of the love-nights
Where you were begotten, where you have begotten,
A strange feeling comes over you
When you see that silent candle burning.
Now you are no longer caught
In the obsession with darkness
And a desire for higher lovemaking
Sweeps you upwards.
Distance does not make you falter,
Now, arriving in magic, flying
And finally insane for the light
You are the butterfly, and you are gone.
And so long as you have not experienced
This: to die and so to grow
You are only a troubled guest
On the dark earth.
(Translated by Robert Bly and David Whyte)
The opening lines of Goethe's poem Erlkönig (1782), Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind? / Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind (Who rides so late through night and wind? / It is the father with his child), are a leitmotif in Canto Three of Shade's poem:
"What is that funny creaking - do you hear?"
"It is the shutter on the stairs, my dear."
"If you're not sleeping, let's turn on the light.
I hate that wind! Let's play some chess." "All right."
"I'm sure it's not the shutter. There - again."
"It is a tendril fingering the pane."
"What glided down the roof and made that thud?"
"It is old winter tumbling in the mud."
"And now what shall I do? My knight is pinned."
Who rides so late in the night and the wind?
It is the writer's grief. It is the wild
March wind. It is the father with his child. (ll. 653-664)