Revisiting Yesterdays: Childhood Memories and Other Recollections

Speak, Memory

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His mother got his synesthesia because she had it too although hers was for musical notes while he saw words in colors. I liked how he had only placed one of the rose pink colors to its living counterpart days before writing about it in his memoir. I loved how he could still feel the handle of his son's pram.

But what about the girls who would smiles appeared only as he was approaching and departing? I want to know how he looked to them. My memoir criteria may be impossible. I want to be let in and I don't want to have to make it for myself. A moment later my first poem began. What touched it off? I think I know. Without any wind blowing, the sheer weight of a raindrop, shining in parasitic luxury on a cordate leaf, caused its tip to dip, and what looked like a globule of quicksilver performed a sudden glissando down the center vein, and then, having shed its bright load, the relieved leaf unbent.

Tip, leap, dip, relief- the instant it all took to happen seemed to me not so much a fraction of time as a fissure in it, a missed heartbeat, which was refunded at once by a patter of rhymes: I say "patter" intentionally, for when a gust of wind did come, the trees would briskly start to drip all together in as crude an imitation of the recent downpour as the stanza I was already muttering resembled the shock of wonder I had experienced when for a moment heart and leaf had been one. Nabokov's poetry was my favorite part of Speak, Memory.

How to write poetry is to be able to notice all kinds of things that are happening all at once, all at once. Janet Frame's beginnings as a poet was also my favorite about her memoir To the Is-Land. I love to know how others reach out. I want to reach out too.

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I want to be let in more than anything. I feel if I could be let in then maybe I could reach something that has always been denied me. Like when you try to remember something and you can't. View all 18 comments. Jul 19, Allycks rated it it was amazing Shelves: This is, in my opinion, Nabokov's best work. The autobiography as a form suits Nabokov perfectly, as his novels are never so much about plot or 'big ideas,' just the intense poetic possibilities of language itself.

So be forewarned, there is almost no useful information here. You may learn a thing or two about pre-Revolution Russia, a scrap of detail about his encounters with Joyce in Paris, or some tidbits about butterfly hunting, but really there's nothing to be learned, no story, no clues to This is, in my opinion, Nabokov's best work.

You may learn a thing or two about pre-Revolution Russia, a scrap of detail about his encounters with Joyce in Paris, or some tidbits about butterfly hunting, but really there's nothing to be learned, no story, no clues to why he wrote 'Lolita' or whatever. What you get is the greatest prose artist of the 20th Century at his finest.

Nabokov takes the mildly interesting raw material of his own life and transforms it into luminous art. Disgusting that a somebody could be such an amazing writer. And this is a person born in Russia, writing in English! The word "genius" seems to come up a lot when people speak of Nabokov.

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Having read this, I now understand. It took me some time to become used to the way he writes. Nabokov often does not seem to care if his point is immediately clear to the reader. Some of the gems I found in this book I could just as easily have missed in a quicker read. So close attention is rewarded. Also rec Disgusting that a somebody could be such an amazing writer. Also recommended is a dictionary since his vocabulary is Knowledge of French does not hurt either possibly an offshoot of his indifference to making his point accessible are the many untranslated French sentences.

I found the discussion of his aristocratic pedigree a bit taxing at times, but he treats it all somewhat lightly so it is manageable. In all, I really could not ask for more from a book. His insights, observations, ideas voiced, etc Describing the writing does not do it any justice, so here are some examples of what I liked: Of the nothings he hears before falling asleep as a child "It is a neutral, detached, anonymous voice, which I catch saying words of no importance to me whatever - an English or a Russian sentence, not even addressed to me, and so trivial that I hardly dare give samples, lest the flatness I wish to convey be marred by a molehill of sense.

And although nothing much can be seen through the mist, there is somehow the blissful feeling that one is looking in the right direction. View all 5 comments. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. And the highest enjoyment of timelessness -- in a landscape selected at random -- is when I stand among rare butterflies and their food plants.

This is ecstasy, and behind the ecstasy is something else, which is hard to explain. It is like a momentary vacuum into which rushes all that I love. A sense of oneness with sun and stone. A thrill of gratitude to whom it may concern -- to the contrapuntal genius of human fate or to tender ghosts humoring a lucky mortal. View all 4 comments. Remember Those Evenings Reading tonight, he remembers those evenings, Walking together in the endless estates, Where the sun poured over shining green leaves. No hint of shades.

Again in this room, with the screen-light hiding the night, Look back to those mountains where our walking sticks are hid; See him turn to the window, thinking his last Of faraway climes. Now nights come bringing only doubts, and the dead howl Of half-formed thoughts, in their windy dwelling Inside his mind, too full of easy Remember Those Evenings Reading tonight, he remembers those evenings, Walking together in the endless estates, Where the sun poured over shining green leaves.

Now nights come bringing only doubts, and the dead howl Of half-formed thoughts, in their windy dwelling Inside his mind, too full of easy questions; Such lonely roads. Oh, my long distance companion, my muse, remember: How we saw that sudden lighting of the valley; As we stood alone in the lonely darkening roads, watching As men went home.

Remember all this, though no nearer each other. As the night is ending, and the dawn will bring Dreams and sleep for some, but no peace to me; Only more dread reading. View all 11 comments.

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Jan 05, Mikimbizii rated it it was amazing Shelves: Sometimes a book just happens to you, it finds you, popping up from an exhibition that you almost didn't go to, from a dusty corner of a college library or a tiny book shop. The flirting is momentary, you know this is the real thing; there is no hesitation. You take it home, its love at first sight "and ever and ever sight". Suddenly all your life so far seem so mundane and banal, a new world of tender mellowness opens - you assimilate it, drown and resurrect in it, live its sublimity, you bec Sometimes a book just happens to you, it finds you, popping up from an exhibition that you almost didn't go to, from a dusty corner of a college library or a tiny book shop.

Suddenly all your life so far seem so mundane and banal, a new world of tender mellowness opens - you assimilate it, drown and resurrect in it, live its sublimity, you become the book. Curled up, sprawled over a bed, by the window, under a sheet in torch light, you meet; the book and you. Every time a guest drops in, or you have to leave for work, you swear horribly, because all you want to do is be with it, to be locked in an eternal read with it, a passion that you have never felt for anything else, anyone else.

It seems as though you were waiting all your life for this moment, this juncture, this awakening, it is the beginning of a new journey. You realise you can still be happy reading and rereading only this one book for the rest of your life. In love with you, Nabokov for Speak, Memory for the universe you showed me, for Ada, for that ardor.

View all 7 comments. Nov 21, Manny rated it really liked it. One of the greatest literary autobiographies ever - a model for how to do it. Just a crisp layer of ice on the top, that he broke with his toothbrush This is a beautifully evocative memoir, consisting of the personal recollections of Nabakov, recalling his childhood in Imperial Russia.

Nabakov was born in to a family who were not only members of the aristocracy, but heavily involved in politics. His father was a liberal, who opposed the Tsar and, in fact, as his grandmother wryly pointed out, was working to bring down the way of life which would eventually see him exiled and virtually penniless… However, this is certainly not a memoir fi This is a beautifully evocative memoir, consisting of the personal recollections of Nabakov, recalling his childhood in Imperial Russia.

His father was a liberal, who opposed the Tsar and, in fact, as his grandmother wryly pointed out, was working to bring down the way of life which would eventually see him exiled and virtually penniless… However, this is certainly not a memoir filled with sorrow or bitterness.

There is the horror of hearing his father might have died in a duel, the joy of butterfly collecting - always a passion throughout his life — his early attempts at writing poetry and his final leaving of Russia after the revolution. Mostly, though, what we get are little snippets — beautifully written — of a world that has long gone, but which can see through the eyes of our narrator. Places, people, a way of life long since vanished, are recreated.

You can almost feel the cold on carriage drives through the snow, or imagine walks in the countryside, so vivid are the descriptions. As such, it is almost not what is written, but how it is written, that is important here. The eye for detail; of the memory of a room, books on a shelf, or how it felt to wake in the morning, is what makes the book come alive. I think it is an important memoir and one which paints a portrait of a certain era and way of life which the author obviously missed, but recalled with love.

Sono stato cattivo nei suoi confronti. L'ho iniziato verso la fine dello scorso anno scolastico, poi l'ho ripreso verso la fine di questo e infine oggi l'ho concluso. Tuttavia la sua pesantezza lo rende una lettura di nicchia, un pezzo da collezione. Non ho letto nient'altro di Nabokov, nemmeno la celebre Lolita che ho comunque acquistato tempo fa. Vorrei cominciare con questo lungo passo: Ho conosciuto persone che, dopo aver sfiorato senza volerlo qualche cosa - lo stipite di una porta, una parete -, erano costrette a passare attraverso tutta una serie rapidissima e sistematica di contatti manuali con varie superfici della stanza prima di tornare a un'esistenza equilibrata.

Niente da fare; devo sapere dove mi trovo, devo sapere dove siete voi, tu e mio figlio. Una Russia che lo costringe a fuggire e a passare vent'anni in esilio nell'Europa Occidentale stabilendosi in seguito in America. Ci parla della Russia della sua infanzia, arricchendola di particolari. La sua caccia alle farfalle, l'amore per queste creature, le vite delle persone della sua famiglia, il suo primo amore, la sua istruzione, i suoi precettori e il rapporto con suo padre.

Ci sono miliardi di dettagli e di voli stilistici meravigliosi, nelle pagine di questa autobiografia. Un gioiello, intimo, personale e profondamente russo come nient'altro al mondo. E Nabokov lo sottolinea bene. Lui che "datemi qualsiasi cosa, su un qualsiasi continente che assomigli alla campagna pietroburghese, e il mio cuore si scioglie". Lui ama questa Russia magica della sua giovinezza, la Russia nei cui boschi, d'estate, portava la sua prima ragazza. Tra i luoghi silvani dove facevano l'amore, di nascosto. In un viottolo tra i campi, all'incrocio con la desolata strada maestra, io scendevo dalla bicicletta e l'appoggiavo a un palo del telegrafo.

Un tramonto quasi terribile nel suo splendore indugiava in un cielo senza limiti. Tra gli ammassi che mutavano in modo impercettibile si riusciva a cogliere dettagli strutturali vivacemente colorati di organismi celesti, o fessure luminose in cumuli oscuri, o piatte spiagge eteree che parevano miraggi di isole deserte.

Un'ombra colossale cominciava a invadere i campi, e nella quiete assoluta i pali telegrafici ronzavano, e quei bruchi che si nutrono di notte scalavano il gambo della pianta prescelta. Zina e Colette, le mie compagne di giochi sulla spiaggia; la saltellante Louise; tutte quelle ragazzine alle feste, accese in volto, la fascia della cintura bassa sui fianchi, i capelli di seta; la languida contessa G.

Vorrei vedere con gli occhi di Nabokov i luoghi della sua infanzia, i buffi personaggi che la affollano, gli insegnanti che ha avuto, i suoi parenti e i suoi fratelli. Il Nabokov ventenne non si rese subito conto che quello sarebbe stato un addio definitivo. Come quando dice che le lettere di Tamara, la ragazza della sua estate russa, sarebbero continuate ad arrivare in Crimea dove si era inizialmente rifugiato con la famiglia dopo la fuga da San Pietroburgo al suo indirizzo.

L'amore per i suoi ricordi. Probably one of my favorite autobiographies to date beaten only perhaps by the Education of Henry Adams. Realistically, it is 4. Other chapters were just as good, and only a couple were less than what I hoped. It is interesting to think of Nabokov writing these in English in Massachusetts from his Russian memories and then translating them in the s back into Russian and then using the Russian version to edit a new edition in The human mind, with all its varieties, is an phenomenal thing Jan 22, Clarissa Olivarez rated it liked it.

I just prefer his fiction. I admit that Nabokov's "poetic prose" really shines through, at certain times; however, on the whole, I found the narrative voice to be frustrating, pompous, and oppressive. May 21, Auguste rated it it was amazing. How wrong Nabokov was in claiming that the music gene had skipped him! His prose is nothing if not music. Many years ago, I had read about half of Lolita before putting it down.

Nevertheless, I have not read any Nabokov since then, and everyone seems to be personally insulted by this omission. What is it that inspires Nabokov fans to froth at the mouth so violently when it comes to this topic? I have now re-read Lolita, and my review can be found here I was promised that this book will let me into the secret Many years ago, I had read about half of Lolita before putting it down.

Gary R. Pangle

I have now re-read Lolita, and my review can be found here I was promised that this book will let me into the secret. So I feel like even though 3. In a way, I can totally see why people love him so much. It is hard not to be floored by the considerable talents of this prose. The sentences, at their best, are indeed delicious. Nabokov seems to me all about the sensual enjoyment of language, within a certain framework of description: Closed inside shutters, a lighted candle, Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, something-something little child, the child kneeling on the pillow that presently would engulf his humming head.

In fact, he has little interest in either, and when he attempts them, it often has the scent of obvious melodramatic effort to it, like bad poetry: 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. But his is almost the opposite of another sentence-master: It can be beautiful or ugly, long or short, totally taking you off guard with its uncompromising and singular vision.

Nabokov is never cruel enough in his economy, his flourishes take too long, and by the time he lands that final punch, it feels overdone, like a rubbery egg. Yes, beautiful, but heavy with labor, dripping with intention. Perhaps it is unfair to compare him to Beckett, who afterall, has no aesthetic similarities to Nabokov. Maybe Flaubert, then, whose sentences are also beautiful in a certain traditional way, but whose economy and clarity constantly stuns and surprises with layer upon layer of psychological subtlety and humor.

Clearly painstaking effort was put in the writing, and yet this effort is also hidden from the reader, so that it looks easy Or maybe we should bring in someone who is equally enamoured by the beauty and playful potential of language, someone like Wallace Stevens, whose words have a certain surface sheen, yet hold so many more implications beneath their enticing veneers, so much philosophical depth. When he tries to do more, it is very hit and miss.

He is like one of those guitar virtuosos getting carried away by their own flashy fingerwork, capable and impressive, but rarely are their technical skills used with the kind of artistic restraint that creates truly great songs. Of course, I am only basing this on this one book alone, so upon further reading, revisions may be in order. That said, there were many memorable moments in this book. Chapter 5 was also great, about Mademoiselle. Chapter 14, about emigrant life, and chess puzzles, and where the stylization seemed less pronounced, was also interesting.

Most of the book concerns itself with the many tutors, servants and other people who worked for and revolved around his aristocratic family; his interest in butterflies, writing poems, and wooing girls comes up later. Then social upheaval and fleeing the country. I found his voice a bit snobby and egotistical at times, which was also a turn-off.

But most of the book was enjoyable enough, though nowhere near the heights they reached in my hype-induced imagination. View all 6 comments. Nov 03, K. This is one of the best memoirs I've ever read! Vladimir Nabokov's Speak, Memory neither has that sorry circumstance of being a born in dirt-poor Irish family nor being a witness to a tragic love story between two people of different religions. Rather, the young Nabokov was the eldest child of a rich political couple residing on a big house with lots Wow!

Rather, the young Nabokov was the eldest child of a rich political couple residing on a big house with lots of servants alongside a prince house and a German embassy in St. Petersburg, Russia prior to the rise of Lenin and Stalin. As for his love life, being a rich politician son, he started having girlfriends at a young age of 13 or 15 with the girl he referred to as a "nymphet" that reminded me of his Dolores, his Lo-lee-ta. So, why did I like this memoir? It's still the way Nabokov writes. The prose is clear but stylist, straightforward but not boring.

His deep English vocabulary is exceptional considering that he lived most of his young life in Russia, Germany and France. Of course, based on the book, he first learned how to speak English than Russian even if he was born in Russia because of the many tutors that his father employed to educate him and his four siblings. It seems that in Russia during that time to 's , children of rich Russians were tutored at their homes prior to entering gymnasiums which was the equivalent of American high-school up to 2nd year of college.

I also enjoyed looking at the pictures properly interspersed in the right sections of the book. You first see the picture, read its caption. Then after reading the chapter, you have to go back to the picture and imagine how he or she reacted or handled the situation that you just read. Especially if the situation was tragic, you look at his or her eyes and ask the picture: They were the rich capitalist that had to flee Russia or they could have been killed by the Bolshevik armies.

In other words, pitying them would only happen after you read their stories. Nabokov was also into chess. There is a nice quote about chess and fiction novel. It should be understood that competition in chess problems is not really between White and Black but between the composer and hypothetical solver just as in a first-rate work of fiction the real clash is not between the characters but between the author and the world , so that a great part of a problem's value is due to the number of "tries"- delusive opening moves, false scents, specious lines of play, astutely and lovingly prepared to lead the would-be solver astray.

Being snoopy, I was also hoping to get an answer to these questions: Was Lolita autobiographical with he being Humbert Humbert? Did he fall in love with a year old nymphet when he was already in his middle age? Unfortunately, this memoir only covers up to the time that he was leaving Europe for U. Nabokov wrote Lolita when he was already in the US it was published in He died at the age of 78 in But he did fall in love to a year old "nymphet" when he was also I am now going to do something quite difficult, a kind of double somersault with a Welsh waggle old acrobats will know what I mean , and I want complete silence, please.

Let's leave him at that. His personal life, including his true young love, should be respected. Of course it has eventually been the product of its typography so its fonts as such set as the printed standard and it can't be changed overnight, it's just my opinion. One thing is certain, I won't read it for the sake of my e 3. One thing is certain, I won't read it for the sake of my eyesight; the above Vintage one having then been my better option has satisfied me with its larger fonts and happier reading.

Another thing impeding my attempt on this memoir is the way he wrote and how he used English words like native speakers in his short stories and some novels I read with arguable enjoyment and understanding; in short, he has wonderfully penned his works via his unique writing style and typically dramatic vocabulary in which I rarely find in other contemporary writers.

Thus it's a bit surprise to me as well as a solution to my wonder when he has divulged his language potential from the early reading lessons that he read English before Russian as ascertained by his father in he was six "that my brother and I could read and write English but not Russian except KAKAO and MAMA ". Such different subsections allow its readers to feel relaxed since they can decide to either go on or stop at the end of any subsection; reading such contents is more enjoyable than those ordinary ones without subsections.

Nevertheless, we can't help being mildly amused due to his sense of humor amidst his lengthy narratives, for instance: Imagination, the supreme delight of the immoral and the immature, should be limited.

In order to enjoy life, we should not enjoy it too much. One night, during a trip abroad, in the fall of , I recall kneeling on my flattish pillow at the window of a sleeping car. View all 10 comments. E la Russia, nel mentre, viene a galla fra le nebbie: Un incantatore sinestesico, ma anche un incantatore acrobata: Sep 07, Chrissie rated it it was amazing Shelves: This book is amazing, not for the story it tells but for how that story is written.

It consists of essays written and published at different times and places, but it all holds together. Each chapter follows the other in basically chronological order. Let the author speak for himself: For the present final edition of Speak Memory I have not only introduced basic changes and copious additions into the initial English text, but have availed myself of the corrections I made while turning it into Russ This book is amazing, not for the story it tells but for how that story is written.

For the present final edition of Speak Memory I have not only introduced basic changes and copious additions into the initial English text, but have availed myself of the corrections I made while turning it into Russian. This re-Englishing of a Russian reversion of what had been an English re-telling of Russian memories in the first place proved to be a diabolical task, but some consolation was given me by the thought that such multiple metamorphoses, familiar to butterflies, had not been tried by any human before.

The book covers the years from his birth in to , when he, his wife and son immigrated to the US. It covers his tutors, his passion for butterflies, a bit about his synesthesia, his coming-of —age, his first girlfriends, his writing and poetry. You clearly understand where he came from, but that is NOT the glory of the book. What is astonishingly good is how he describes memories. Words, words and more words. Adjectives and unusual verbal constructions. If you want simple wording, I guess this is not for you though. Since what is so stupendous about the book is the writing, I must offer you another sample.

It is at the end of the book when he is soon off to America on an ocean liner. He is walking with his wife and six year-old son up a path in a park in Paris, and they spot the boat: What I really remember about this neutrally blooming design the park is its clever thematic connection with transatlantic gardens and parks.

For suddenly as we came to the end of its path you and I his wife saw something that we did not immediately point out to our child, so as to enjoy in full the blissful shock the enchantment and glee he would experience on discovering ahead the ungenuinely gigantic, the unrealistically real prototype of the various toy vessels he dottled about in his bath. Find what the sailor has hidden that the finder cannot un-see once it has been seen. The narration has just the right pomp! Dec 28, Alan rated it it was amazing.

First read the autobiography before he retitled, and somewhat rewrote, it—though unless I find my notes to that reading "Conclusive Evidence" , I shall not know what he rewrote. I do have a copy of Speak, Memory on my shelf, fairly innocent of marginalia until now.

Page numbers from my Vintage edition. It sufficed First read the autobiography before he retitled, and somewhat rewrote, it—though unless I find my notes to that reading "Conclusive Evidence" , I shall not know what he rewrote. It sufficed her for her disorientation on arrival in the strange land, for finding her runaway charges, and for many other needs. VN regularly travelled, as a boy, from their St Petersburg home, later the Danish Embassy, to their Villa in Vyra, or yearly to Biarritz and Weisbaden, Paris and Berlin; then, with the Revolution, he and his brother, draft age, were the first sent, his mother and three younger siblings a couple days later, to Ukraine.

His father had said, he might not see them again; he was on the representative governing committee the Bolsheviks took over. But his father did get to Ukraine. Nabokov is a world expert in fact named the Karner Blue when he was 44, and the American Museum of Natural History includes his name in Plebejus Lysandra cormion Nabokov The embedding of minute details from a world forever gone into the plush, exuberant prose of Nabokov is the closest you will come to literature practiced as jewellery, horology or some combination of the two.

Apart from the stuff I mentioned in the reading updates I'd like to bring to the fore, from amongst the embarrassment of riches that is Speak, Memory , the following: In speaking about his love for composing "fairy chess" moves, which he describes as a poethico-mathematical endeavor, Nabokov The embedding of minute details from a world forever gone into the plush, exuberant prose of Nabokov is the closest you will come to literature practiced as jewellery, horology or some combination of the two.

In speaking about his love for composing "fairy chess" moves, which he describes as a poethico-mathematical endeavor, Nabokov makes the following description of this cerebral pastime: Deceit, to the point of diabolism, and originality, verging upon the grotesque, were my notions of strategy; and although in matters of construction I tried to conform, whenever possible, to classical rules, such as economy of force, unity, weeding out of loose ends, I was always ready to sacrifice purity of form to the exigencies of fantastic content, causing form to bulge and burst like a sponge-bag containing a small furious devil.

This seems to me as good a description as any, not of his strategy in composing chess moves, but of his strategy in composing novels. He continues thus, making the parallel overt: It should be understood that competition in chess problems is not really between White and Black but between the composer and the hypothetical solver just as in a first-rate work of fiction the real clash is not between the characters but between the author and the world , so that a great part of a problem's value is due to the number of "tries" -delusive opening moves, false scents, specious lines of play, astutely and lovingly prepared to lead the would-be solver astray.

Nabokov the writer is an aesthete and a riddler. Those are his twin aims. The prefacial mention of Mrs. Schiller in Lolita , "The Vane Sisters" acrostical last paragraph, the matter of Pale Fire's true narrator, and even more to the point, the reconstruction of chess moves as theme and metaphor in The Real Life of Sebastian Knight are all good examples of these preoccupations.

In support of this speculation I offer what would seem a typical example of this strategy, anteceding by two pages the passages quoted above: Right after mentioning his name Sirin , Nabokov adds that "He belonged to my generation. He does not mean to say -although it follows that it would be the case- that they are coetaneous. What he means is that Sirin was generated by Nabokov. Sirin" was Nabokov's pen name during the twenties for his publications in Paris. He then proceeds gleefully to describe Sirin's reputation and the reception of his works, mentioning, amongst other things: Be forewarned when approaching his novels: I could not have asked for a better reading experience.

Any foray into a spectacular mind must needs be sparked with blackness, fantastic oddity, and the occasional insufferable passage or three. Can I endure another connection with a famous artist or scientist or politician? Can I count the number of times he invokes his nearness to Pushkin? Can I bear how purely his mother loved him? Of course, his mother loved him, he was favorite both of mother and father, the eldest surviving child, heir in the end not to wealth or property or title but surely Any foray into a spectacular mind must needs be sparked with blackness, fantastic oddity, and the occasional insufferable passage or three.

Of course, his mother loved him, he was favorite both of mother and father, the eldest surviving child, heir in the end not to wealth or property or title but surely to the most elegant of intellectual fortunes. But never, not for a page or a paragraph, was I dulled into the fast skimming reading I undertake sometimes in novels or histories; every sentence could be lifted and appreciated as its own art. I could spend hours, days discussing the smallest of word choices, the layers of meaning behind phrasings: How many meanings of "nictitating" did he ascribe to that beautiful passage about the countryside passing by out the train window?

What import does he ascribe to the dead mosquito on his cheek? The back cover of my edition says that it offers incisive insights into his major works; while I see the sketching out of the way he creates character and scene in every bit of the book, the insights are not "incisive" so much has environmental. Here, is a man whose obsessions even from childhood were strange and extraordinarily detailed; here is a man who has seen too many atrocities from one or two steps removed.

The eldest son of a landed family, descendant of princes and barons and counts, still a teen when the series of revolutions forced his family's exile from Russia, neither he nor his family ever underwent torture or spent time in prison camps; still living in exile in Berlin in the 30s, he saw Hitler's rise but was largely immune to its horrors. Still, he was forever shown the photographs and banned from home; there is terrible irony in the loss of his two great adolescent loves, both whose station was beneath his; though years, even months later, the whole construct of Tsardom would be blown to smithereens.

There is so much here to ponder, to widen the eyes, to inspire whole syllabi of study. Lists of exiled Russian writers, histories of the early twentieth century told from every vantage point, of course, Pushkin, and surely, Nabokov's works themselves, are to follow in an ever-branching reading list.

Our study will never be complete; through 'Speak, Memory,' the appetite one tastes just a bite of a thousand rich and nuanced meals. Each is known utterly in that explosion of taste and yet one is never, ever satisfied, one always wants more. Apr 08, Nick Craske rated it it was amazing Shelves: A work of art. Jan 21, Roy Lotz rated it really liked it Shelves: It is a bit disquieting to review an autobiography. The reviewer struggles to shake the uncomfortable but not untrue feeling that one is reviewing not only a book, but a being.

Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov

The substance and style both stem from the same soul; the content and quality come from the identical individual. The temptation is to offer a slight round of applause, a light pat on the back, and then to move on quietly but quickly. So I hope I don't damage my relationship with Vlad if I confess a vague but unmistakab It is a bit disquieting to review an autobiography. So I hope I don't damage my relationship with Vlad if I confess a vague but unmistakable disappointment with this book. Let me skip the obsequious praise of his beautiful prose style and get to the flaw; then I can backtrack.

The main flaw of this work is, I think, the lack of the winsome frankness that makes the autobiographical genre special. In a word, Nabokov comes across as guarded. Through the narration of events, his privacy is superficially penetrated; yet his prose, so flowing and florid, erects another kind of barrier between us and the man.

In his urge to beautify, his writing obscures its object. Reading this book is less like having a chat with him in his living room than sitting down to a magic show. We see only what he wants us to see; through fleet flicks of the wrist, he keeps the strings and springs secret. It is, then, a testament to his tremendous talent that this book still manages to be, at times, breathtaking. Yet, in-between these ecstatic flashes, I must confess I was often found myself wishing the book would end; I realized, to my own amazement and shame, that I was bored.

Speak, Memory is, in short, far more a work of literature than a confessional. There are some fascinating glimpses into his artistic process in this work. I particularly liked his irresistibly dorky interest in butterflies. In fact, butterfly catching—the act of sneaking out of the house, net in hand, to chase flighty fairies through fields, in order to kill them and pin them in a display case—forms a handy metaphor for the artistic process: The joy of experiencing a beautiful chess problem reminds me of G.

It is one thing to conceive the main play of a composition and another to construct it. The chessboard before him is a magnetic field, a system of stresses and abysses, a starry firmament. The bishops move over it like searchlights. This or that knight is a lever adjusted and tried, and readjusted and tried again, till the problem is tuned up to the necessary level of beauty and surprise. All children are more or less alike; it is as adults that we become interesting, rather than merely promising.

But, as I said before, Nabokov is not here to reveal, but to practice poetic prestidigitation. We're lucky he's such a good magician. Jun 10, Uday rated it it was amazing. The book which has eclipsed almost the entirety of my graduation, the favorite gospel from my Personal Jesus. Like the ardent lepidopterist he is, Nabokov pins beautiful memories to the page: I loved this book and its old-fashioned language, dripping with adjectives and metaphors, wringing so much nuance from small everyday scenes that they appear more real than if they were seen in a painting or a film.

He is a master of the reconstituted moment. He has a labyrinthine vocabulary. And the voluptuous images! He signals what is to come with his first paragraph: The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more calm than the one he is heading for at some forty-five hundred heartbeats an hour.

As she was being tucked up again in the sleigh, I watched the vapor exhaled by all, horse included. I watched, too, the familiar pouting movement she made to distend the network of her close-fitting veil drawn too tight over her face, and as I write this, the touch of reticulated tenderness that my lips used to feel when I kissed her veiled cheek comes back to me— flies back to me with a shout of joy out of the snow-blue, blue-windowed the curtains are not yet drawn past. Nabokov shouts with joy throughout the memoir. His writing is not small and contained and grey and muscular, in the style of so much current writing, and I love him for it.

I feel as though I could almost stop reading memoirs now. I selected the wrong version of Speak, Memory. I actually read Speak, Memory: It is the hippocampus that is critical to this process, associating all these different aspects so that the entire event can be retrieved. This work supports a long-standing computational model of how memory might work, in which the hippocampus enables different types of information to be bound together so that they can be imagined as a coherent event when we want to remember what happened.

It provides a fundamental insight into our ability to recollect what has happened, and may help to understand how this process can go wrong in conditions such as Alzheimer's disease or post-traumatic stress disorder PTSD. Volunteers were then asked to remember details based on a single cue, such as "where was Obama?

The study showed that when asked "where was Obama? Christopher Bergland is a world-class endurance athlete, coach, author, and political activist. Adverse childhood experiences are more common in some sociodemographic groups. A single gene mutation made our ancestors freakishly good long-distance runners.

Two new studies warn against taking a one-size-fits-all approach to probiotics. Back Find a Therapist.

What Causes Stress Eating? Parenting Adolescents and the Choice-Consequence Connection. Has Gender Always Been Binary? Christopher Bergland The Athlete's Way. Follow me on Twitter.

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