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I would like to express my sincere and unwavering agreement with Mr. Braun's
kind, persuasive note to immediately move on, or back, to the greater purposes
of this forum.
This said, I would like to comment on Mr. Cooks timely insertion into the
dialogue regarding VN's comments on the reader--particularly, the case of
vicarious living through the characters in his or any novel. I believe this
needs some amplification and possibly, minor clarification.
We can safely assume that readers supporting the delirium of this nation's
best seller lists (and possibly the stern shores of New Zealand) seek exactly
what Nabokov claims characteristic of the poor imagination. Namely, they hope
to disappear not into the poetical, almost mystically transformative world of
great literature, but rather, step into the lawyers shoes as he plods through
the first draft of a screenplay. Okay, not a great revelation.
I purchased the Cornell lectures some time ago ("Lectures on Literature"). My
copy is well turned, frayed and underlined, and sits cozily on my writing desk
where it can be handily snatched for a quick breath when stumped for
motivation. Then I reread about creating "new worlds" and in particular:
"...the real writer, the fellow who sends planets spinning and models a man
asleep and eagerly tampers with the sleeper's rib, that kind of author has no
given values at his disposal: he must create them himself."
So much for the Lolita discussion. Also, further reading of "Lectures"
supports Mr. Cook's remarks on T.S. Eliot from "Tradition and the Individual
Talent." Nabokov and Eliot shared similar views, and said much the same thing.
The clarification alluded to above is simply that, as a reader of Nabokov,
Eliot and others of generally reputable note, I fail the test of a good
reader. But only if we take VN's meaning too literally. I do not live
"vicariously" through the characters. It is more in the nature of sitting on
Nabokov's shoulder, watching his slow hand move steadily down the page, from
left to right, each word plucked magificently and perfectly, the connections
amply placing me in a world of his creation where even a pin cushion deserves
admirable mention in the scheme of things.
kind, persuasive note to immediately move on, or back, to the greater purposes
of this forum.
This said, I would like to comment on Mr. Cooks timely insertion into the
dialogue regarding VN's comments on the reader--particularly, the case of
vicarious living through the characters in his or any novel. I believe this
needs some amplification and possibly, minor clarification.
We can safely assume that readers supporting the delirium of this nation's
best seller lists (and possibly the stern shores of New Zealand) seek exactly
what Nabokov claims characteristic of the poor imagination. Namely, they hope
to disappear not into the poetical, almost mystically transformative world of
great literature, but rather, step into the lawyers shoes as he plods through
the first draft of a screenplay. Okay, not a great revelation.
I purchased the Cornell lectures some time ago ("Lectures on Literature"). My
copy is well turned, frayed and underlined, and sits cozily on my writing desk
where it can be handily snatched for a quick breath when stumped for
motivation. Then I reread about creating "new worlds" and in particular:
"...the real writer, the fellow who sends planets spinning and models a man
asleep and eagerly tampers with the sleeper's rib, that kind of author has no
given values at his disposal: he must create them himself."
So much for the Lolita discussion. Also, further reading of "Lectures"
supports Mr. Cook's remarks on T.S. Eliot from "Tradition and the Individual
Talent." Nabokov and Eliot shared similar views, and said much the same thing.
The clarification alluded to above is simply that, as a reader of Nabokov,
Eliot and others of generally reputable note, I fail the test of a good
reader. But only if we take VN's meaning too literally. I do not live
"vicariously" through the characters. It is more in the nature of sitting on
Nabokov's shoulder, watching his slow hand move steadily down the page, from
left to right, each word plucked magificently and perfectly, the connections
amply placing me in a world of his creation where even a pin cushion deserves
admirable mention in the scheme of things.