Subject
Jeffrey Eugenides on THE GIFT (fwd)
Date
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The 7-30-99 issue of Salon magazine asked several celebrities what
they are reading this summer. Jeffrey Eugenides, author of "The Virgin
Suicides," had this to say:
This summer, having just moved to Berlin, I've been reading books to
acclimatize myself to my new surroundings and to dull my withdrawal symptoms
from leaving New York. My Baedecker here has been "The Gift," the book
Vladimir Nabokov wrote in Berlin when he was roughly my age. There's a
picture in the Brian Boyd biography showing Nabokov, his wife, Vera, and
their son (in a pram) on a Berlin street. I'm also here with my wife, and we
have a baby in a Martinelli stroller, and I like to pretend that I'm writing
my own version of "The Gift." There's only one problem with this fantasy. As
much as I love Nabokov's writing, I don't much like "The Gift." The book
displays the worst things about Nabokov, his self-satisfaction and smugness,
in spades. It's about a poet and, of course, it's magnificently written, but
every page demonstrates the main character's genius and the whole thing
works like a big finger pointing at the author, who, of course, is the real
genius. This is so obvious that in his preface (written 30 years later)
Nabokov keeps insisting that he didn't model the poet on himself. Still,
there are some nice things in there about Berlin. For instance, the older
apartments here still have these huge, medieval keys and Nabokov mentions
this same thing.
Rodney Welch
they are reading this summer. Jeffrey Eugenides, author of "The Virgin
Suicides," had this to say:
This summer, having just moved to Berlin, I've been reading books to
acclimatize myself to my new surroundings and to dull my withdrawal symptoms
from leaving New York. My Baedecker here has been "The Gift," the book
Vladimir Nabokov wrote in Berlin when he was roughly my age. There's a
picture in the Brian Boyd biography showing Nabokov, his wife, Vera, and
their son (in a pram) on a Berlin street. I'm also here with my wife, and we
have a baby in a Martinelli stroller, and I like to pretend that I'm writing
my own version of "The Gift." There's only one problem with this fantasy. As
much as I love Nabokov's writing, I don't much like "The Gift." The book
displays the worst things about Nabokov, his self-satisfaction and smugness,
in spades. It's about a poet and, of course, it's magnificently written, but
every page demonstrates the main character's genius and the whole thing
works like a big finger pointing at the author, who, of course, is the real
genius. This is so obvious that in his preface (written 30 years later)
Nabokov keeps insisting that he didn't model the poet on himself. Still,
there are some nice things in there about Berlin. For instance, the older
apartments here still have these huge, medieval keys and Nabokov mentions
this same thing.
Rodney Welch