NABOKOV
AND THE REAL WORLD
Between Appreciation and Defense
Robert Alter
ISBN 978-0-691-21193-0
The title suggests that Nabokov, or at least his fiction, is
something other than the “real world” and that he is need of
defence. The first proposition stems from what Alter sees as the
dismissal of Nabokov as a mere artificer, a weaver of intricate
patterns, a kind of latter-day Binet producing on his lathe his
curious assemblage of shapes which mean nothing and serve no end;
the second from his need to erect a protective barrier between the
master and such detractors.
Literature is part of the real world, however fantastical. Reality
as we conceive it is, of course, limited by our cognitive, and even
physical, abilities. There are frequencies which register no sound
for us; but that the universe (as we conceive it) existed long
before we did is uncontroversial. Nabokov’s fiction is most
definitely part of the real world and what he writes about is
indefeasibly part of commonplace human experience. Take Lolita.
What could be more real than sexuality, what Joyce called “the
motive power of all things”. Humbert Humbert’s sexual impulses are
demented and vile, but the entire novel rests on the exploration of
arguably the most fundamental human motivation.
Early on, Alter refers to Nabokov’s rejection of the “herd instinct”
and later to his aversion to “group-think”. Nabokov came from quasi
aristocratic roots, though his family were staunch liberals. We need
to think about what liberalism meant at the time. Take Mill, one of
the salient liberal intellectuals. He took the view that England was
a morally superior nation. As such, it had the right and duty to
intervene in other (lesser) nations, to show them how to behave.
That was his view of India. He supported the terrible violence of
the British in response to the so-called “Indian Mutiny”. Liberalism
embraced a long and erroneous intellectual tradition which saw those
with power as engaged in a moral adventure. It was their duty to
control those over who they had power, even slaughter them, for
their own good. The mistake was the failure to recognise the
universality of human nature (still a widespread error). There’s a
glib cultural relativism which says: “Well, look at us. We’re
advanced. We have AI and democracy. They aren’t like us. We need to
make the decisions.” This is presented as a moral position: it’s our
moral duty to control them because we’re superior. In fact, they are
like us. Just the same. Our biological endowment is universal and
cultural differences, like linguistic ones, are possible only
because of the rigidity of the inherited limits which produce them.
Nabokov was a great writer, but how good a thinker he was we have
only hints about. Without being definitive, it’s worth questioning
whether he was a little too ready to identify with aristocratic
entitlement and to evoke “herd instinct” and “group-think” as a
means of implying the superiority of the class he came from. In
discussing Nabokov’s rejection of totalitarianism Alter says: “In
the crucial instance of the exceptional individual, the mind itself
refuses to be caged.” The exceptional individual? Totalitarianism
has been resisted by the common folk, by bricklayers, plumbers, bus
drivers, nurses, shop assistants and by illiterate peasants (look at
the people who established the Spanish Republic in 1936) and some of
them paid with their lives. Does Alter include them as “exceptional
individuals”?
Nabokov, Alter argues, is irrevocably associated with the moment
when the “cultural splendour”of Czarist Russia disappeared. It was a
splendour known by a small minority. The condition of the greater
part of the Russian population was dismal. If Nabokov’s writing is,
as he claims, a monument to that culture, does that imply, in spite
of anti-Czarist liberalism, a defence of cultural apartheid?
Poshlust
is defined by Alter as “the fake sublime”, a close relative of
kitsch. He also quotes Norman Mailer: “Sentimentality is the
emotional promiscuity of those who have no sentiment.” Nabokov, the
conscientious artist, is the enemy of poshlust and its
entrenched sentimentality. He is also, in Invitation to a
Beheading and Bend Sinister, the anatomist and dismisser
of totalitarianism. In 1969 Alter wondered how a writer could
“indulge” in aesthetics in a novel dealing with the horror of
totalitarianism but here he understands: the honesty of true art,
its refusal of poshlust and sentimentality, is the world’s
best defence against the deceits and self-deceptions which are the
stuff of dictatorship.
Nabokov called Lolita a “timebomb”. In a sense, all real
literature is: it seldom produces its full explosion in its own
time. Alter makes the obvious point that, despite its marvellous
parody, its excellent style and its subtle allusions, what makes the
novel the source of discussion is its morally dubious subject. The
first edition was from the Olympia Press which published much trash.
No doubt, in the early days, that didn’t help. It requires a
pornographic imagination, however, to respond to the book as
anything but the exploration of the mind of a monster. The
intriguing question is why this extreme material provided Nabokov
with what he needed artistically. Alter sees the value in Humbert’s
condition of a man “hopelessly imprisoned in his obsession”. Perhaps
it could be argued that it’s the denaturing of Humbert which is so
appalling and which provides, if you like, a vivid metaphor for the
alienation of modern humanity. Maybe Nabokov required the extreme of
dehumanisation in order to explore its more commonplace form.
Nabokov disliked Freudianism. Humbert’s reliving his disappointed
adolescent love in his obsession with Dolores is interpreted as a
“parody of Freud”. In this view, Humbert is a conscious manipulator,
investing his despicable exploitation of a child with the innocence
of calf love. It’s a risky parody, however. Freud aside, there is
little doubt deeply negative experiences influence subsequent
behaviour. The episode with Annabel took place when they were both
twelve, somewhat young for what Alter calls “fooling around” – a
typically American example of rendering the most profound
experiences superficial. The narrator’s description of his tryst is
adult and knowing. It has nothing of the wonder and hesitancy of
youthful exploration. How far can we rely on what he says? Perhaps
the entire business in nothing but an elaborate excuse.
Alter sees Nabokov as a practitioner of what the Russian Formalists
called “laying bare the device”. Art which advertises itself as art
tends to spavin the effect: “A few words more about Mrs Humbert
while the going is good (a bad accident is to happen quite soon).”
The narratorial intrusion (Flaubert would have winced, his
disappearing narrator being in cahoots with the author who must be
“present partout, visible nulle part”), disturbs the flow of the
narrative, challenges suspension of disbelief and partakes of that
knowing refusal of art which Daniel Bell, among others, has
suggested may be a sign of immaturity. Art, like games, requires
rules. Refusing the rules of tennis scuppers the game. The point
about the rules is they set boundaries which make the game work.
Nabokov, Alter argues, take two things very seriously in Lolita:
the sexual exploitation of a child and the artistic means of writing
about it. In spite of all the literary fun and games “moving
emotions are expressed”. That seems a fairly flimsy justification.
Nabokov identifies, in his most famous novel, not with his
narrator’s sexual perversion but, Alter argues, with “the
celebration of art as a fixative of beauty and feeling”. Is such a
celebration beyond Humbert? Alter thinks the novel is a “great love
story”. It’s a great lust story, but love is surely about nurturing
another’s potential and is incompatible with exploitation. The
relation between Humbert and Lolita is not one of love but power. If
Aragon is right and “l’amour, c’est d’abord partir de soi même”,
isn’t Humbert’s problem his pathological incapacity to escape
himself? Does he, for a moment, set Lolita’s needs before his own?
The novel bears this peculiarity:
it expresses in exquisite prose the most debased motivation.
Evil literary characters usually betray themselves: no one can doubt
that Iago and Lady MacBeth are wicked. The unnerving aspect of
Lolita is the subtlety by which the narrator’s evil is conveyed: the
prose is a little too exquisite; it incorporates a persistent but
barely signified self-excusing; the reader has to be minutely
attentive to spot the expressions of emotional cloying; behind the
refined filigree of the writing is an undifferentiated clump of
seething, tormenting, regressed needs.
Alter speaks of the “arbitrariness of narrative conventions” and the
“linear structure of the usual traditional narrative”. What’s the
difference between “usual” and “traditional”? He’s discussing what
he calls the “self-conscious” novel, ie one that refers to the means
of novel- making as it makes. Are narrative conventions really
arbitrary? There’s a very simple fact about human cognition: we are
endowed with a sense of biography: one event follows another and
they influence one another. This isn’t a response to external
stimuli. If it was it would be weak and hit-and-miss. It’s endowed.
It’s part of our biological inheritance. Narrative conventions
aren’t arbitrary, they flow from our nature. Just like the rules of
tennis make use of our hand-eye co-ordination and anticipation. The
mise en abîme ( typically the novel within the novel, play
within the play or painting within the painting) is a favourite of
the self-conscious novelist. Nabokov makes much of it, as did
Laurence Sterne. Of course, this technique is possible only if the
conventions of the “traditional narrative”, as Alter calls it, are
established. You can’t strip off the cover to show the workings of
the pistons if the engine has no pistons.
Alter insists on the “problematic relationship between literature
and reality”, but, as suggested earlier, the problem exists only if
literature is seen as distinct from reality. If literature is part
of reality, which it obviously is, isn’t Alter saying that the
problem lies in the fact that the characters and events of fiction
are invented? Why is that a problem? Ibsen said: “The illusion I
seek is the illusion of reality.” We are endowed with abstract
thought, not just the capacity for it, but the necessity of it. We
think in abstractions whether we like it or not. Literature is made
from language and all language is creative. If I say “I got out of
bed this morning” that is not the act itself but an abstract
recording of the event. In a sense, it’s fiction. Even if it’s true,
the abstract re-creation of the act is other than the act itself.
This is simply built into language. If I say, “I leapt out of bed
this morning”, I’ve entered the realms of the fantastical, even if I
did.
In discussing the character of Charles Xavier from Pale Fire,
Alter refers to the narcissism of homosexuality, or at least of this
iteration. What makes people homosexual? You can read in the popular
press of the gene for homosexuality, but as has been wisely
observed, no one speaks of a gene for heterosexuality. Mothers have
been blamed, but likewise, no one suggests their mother made them
heterosexual. Single sex schools similarly. The truth is we have
very little idea. Narcissism is ill-defined. At best, it’s a weak
sense of self which requires control and entails an inability to
respond to the needs of others. To attribute that to homosexuals is
somewhat dangerous. Maybe homosexuals simply have some quirk in
their brains, some minor difference, like that which makes some
people colour blind. Why associate that with pathology? Maybe it’s
nothing but a minor difference.
Pale Fire,
Alter sees as a philosophic novel concerned with “how each
individual mind filters reality.” Every mind is individual, but
their individuality is a function of their likeness. If you speak
English, you won’t produce sentences like: “The truly is gone the
table.” The rules of English don’t permit it, but they are shared
rules. They are collective. If each individual mind filtered
language in its own way, there would be no language. Of course,
every individual uses language in a unique way, but the uniqueness
lies in minor modifications of the given regularities. Even
Shakespeare is operating within the narrow and rigid limits imposed
by language. He’s aware of them and good at playing with them.
Perhaps Nabokov, given his background, harboured a nervousness about
the masses which made him retreat into a use of language which would
be beyond them. The fact remains, language is our common human
inheritance and even the very best writers are no more than
millimetres from the everyday language of the street.
Nabokov described his characters as “galley slaves” and Alter
describes him as a “control freak”. He builds new worlds in his
fiction, rather than “reflecting the conventionally presupposed
one”. Once again, we run up against the facts. The world is what it
is. The new worlds Nabokov is supposed to have invented can’t break
free of language. Every time he uses a noun he’s recognising that
“conventionally presupposed one” which Alter seems to suggest is an
illusion. By constantly setting up the straw man of a questionable
conventional “reality” in contradistinction to Nabokov’s fiction,
Alter is able to knock it down in favour of his beloved author’s
“new worlds”. Why does Nabokov need this special pleading? He writes
well, but he isn’t without faults. Ce serait trop beau.
Nabokov was, it seems, a great admirer of that stultifying,
antiseptic novelist and theorist, Robbe-Grillet. Alter finds him not
guilty of Robbe-Grillet’s crimes against literature ie his wrenching
of fiction from moral context, as if the writing of War and Peace
were no greater a moral undertaking than solving a popular
publication crossword. All the same, he judges Pale Fire the
“cleverest piece of fictional cryptography in the English language”.
If cryptography adds to the readers’ interest and pleasure, what can
be said against it? If, however, it’s a defence against the reader,
a barrier erected to prove the author’s superior intelligence,
there’s good reason to have doubts. Alter argues that Pale Fire
bears “the weight of its author’s personal experience”. Perhaps, in
the most fundamental sense, novels always do, even when their
subject matter seems remote. Did Nabokov fear giving himself away?
Was he wary of the heart on his sleeve? Writers are often private
people. They spend a lot of time alone. Yet, if they are fortunate
(or unfortunate) enough to become famous, they find themselves
dissected like frogs in a laboratory. Shakespeare knew what he was
doing: he wanted his plays to be famous and his life to be private,
which is why we know so little about him.
Pale Fire’s
Kinbote expresses a view of art which Alter believes is also
Nabokov’s : “reality is neither the subject nor the object of true
art, which creates its own special reality having nothing to do with
the average “reality” perceived by the communal eye.” There appear
to be three realities here. At best, the formulation is confused, at
worst unhinged. What is the reality which is neither the subject nor
object of true art? Does it include the rotation of the planets,
gravity, natural selection, birth, procreation and death? Does the
special reality of art float free of all these? The formulation has
all the hallmarks of a feeble, defensive position. Perhaps Alter
isn’t quite right: is Nabokov at some distance from Kinbote’s
exorbitant theory? As for the communal eye, this appears to be a
prejudice in Nabokov: the idea that a handful of artists see the
world in their own way, while the rest of humanity is sunk in
collective stupidity. That’s a hard doctrine to uphold when you
consider the political leanings of Wagner, Ezra Pound or Celine.
Alter advances the intriguing thesis that Nabokov chooses sexual
experience as the ground of some of his fiction because of its
isolating power. He’s right that sexual desire is an extreme of
experience and in the extremes we are alone, but sexual desire is
also the basis of intimacy, of the shared subjectivity which permits
us escape from our isolation. Sex without intimacy, the essence of
pornimagery, is very isolating; but porn is clearly a perversion of
the instinct. Just as junk food exploits the instinct to nutrition
and leads to a crisis of obesity, so porn exploits the instinct for
intimacy and generates intense loneliness. Perhaps this is what
Nabokov had perceived: it’s not the sexual drive itself, but its
diversion into unhealthy pathways that has created a culture of
isolates. In passing, it’s worth mentioning that V.S. Pritchett in
his lovely little study, The Living Novel, observes that the
fault with Dickens’s characters is not, as often claimed, that they
are caricatures, but that they are inveterate isolates. As Steven
Marcus has shown us, Victorian England was drowning in pornography.
Kinbote states that Mind must have been involved in the creation of
the universe. Alter sees this as Nabokov’s view too, and he appears
to endorse it. Perhaps this goes some way to account for Nabokov’s
practice as a novelist: everything is over-ordered by the
controlling Mind, the characters are “galley slaves”, the author is
the god of his universe. Order must be imposed from above. This view
is almost certainly wrong. Order is a function of magnitude. There
is order in the Milky Way, but not among sub-atomic particles. The
smaller you get, the more chaotic. Order grows from randomness. It
is not imposed from above but rises from below. Far from it being
true that the way the universe is points to the intervention of
Mind, it points to the opposite. What kind of rationality would make
chaos the fundamental physical principle or randomness the driver of
species variation? Mind, as intended here, is exclusively human.
Other animals can think, but only we have language and abstract
thought. Why? Almost certainly because of a random mutation in a
single individual some seventy thousand years ago. Mind could not
have created the universe: it took it thousands of years to grasp
the earth is flat and the sun the centre of our system. It still has
no idea what dark matter is. Mind is the very limited capacity of
human cognition. The universe is the product of the cumulative
effect of impossibly slow processes working over unconscionable
amounts of time. Mind is its highest achievement, but it the
universe which made mind not vice versa.
Ada,
according to Alter, is Nabokov’s attempt to regain the paradise of
youthful love. His chosen means in incest. Alter sees in the brother
and sister relationship “ an image of prelapsarian, unfragmented
humanity”. Incest avoidance is more or less universal in human
culture. There are good genetic reasons for not mating with close
relatives but maybe the Westermarck theory has some purchase and
growing up in close proximity creates a particular emotional bond
which renders sexual attraction unappealing. No one is sure about
the origin of incest avoidance but that it prevails in some form in
every human culture seems beyond doubt. The “unfragmented humanity”
Alter evokes is a myth. He recognises that Nabokov has combined
Greek and Hebrew myths in his pursuit of the Garden of Eden. It
appears that just as Nabokov clung to the impossible notion of Mind
helping to create the universe, so he was wedded to a conception of
a once innocent and unified humanity, whose bliss seems to have been
subverted by the arrival of sex, or at least exogamy. No such
humanity ever existed, of course. Alter points out the
correspondences between the novel and Marvell’s The Garden.
The poem evokes the fantasy of solitary bliss in the original
garden; male bliss, of course. Kafka is reputed to have remarked
that the point about life is that it ends. It could equally be
remarked that it reproduces. Sexual reproduction is the most
effective form. Whatever innocence or bliss we can attain has to be
in keeping with that.
“Who is speaking here?” asks Alter with regard to a passage in which
Pnin reflects negatively on the American orthodoxy in teaching
modern languages. Qui parle, is, of course, the famous question
raised by Flaubert’s practice; his frequent use of style indirect
libre – the incorporation of the thoughts and feelings of
characters into the narration. Nabokov is the inheritor of this
technique (Jane Austen liked it) and Alter is right, he makes
frequent and skilled use of it. Yet there is no great originality in
unreliable narration in which the reader discovers simultaneously
the character’s sensibility and mentality and the narrator’s and the
implied author’s organising, and by implication, superior
consciousness.
“Authentic thinking is the product of individual consciousness”
asserts Alter, discussing Nabokov’s dislike of “group-think”. The
idea sets up a conflict between the individual and the group, once
again suggesting there are a few individuals who think and the mass
who engage in something else which gets called “group-think”.
Thinking can take place only in individual minds, but individuals
don’t live alone and they influence one another’s thinking.
“Group-think” is a loose term, applied to opinion in order to
disdain it. The collective opinions we like are said the be those of
thinking individuals, those we don’t
are “group-think”. When everyone thought the earth was the
centre of the universe, that idea was held in millions of individual
minds; but all those subjectivities were aligned because of the
state of shared understanding. Copernicus and Galileo worked out the
facts and everybody’s thinking changed, though not without some
distress. That two and two make four is subjective, in that it
exists in our individual minds, but it becomes objective by being
confirmed by all subjectivities. Some people are better at thinking
than others, like some are better at running, but all thinking takes
place in individual minds. The moral responsibility of the good
thinkers is to put their thinking before the rest of us in the most
comprehensible manner; but there is no such think as “group-think”
in the sense of thinking taking place somewhere other than in
individual minds. The notion of a few individuals who think and the
mass who don’t or can’t or won’t is mistaken. Everyone thinks all
the time. Try to stop yourself thinking. You can do so only by
thinking about not thinking. Thinking is our biological inheritance.
Shared ideas are not “group-think”, but what is inevitable. Everyone
thinks energy and mass are different forms of the same thing, but
they didn’t before Einstein. It isn’t that Einstein had an
“individual consciousness” and everyone else didn’t; it’s simply
that he was better at thinking about physics. He wasn’t too good at
thinking about music though, as his fellow players knew.
Nabokov saw himself, Alter argues, as the “exquisite Flaubertian
artificer”. Flaubert, of course, failed when tried to be too
exquisite an artificer. La Tentation de Saint-Antoine
deserves little attention and Flaubert’s continual work couldn’t
make it anything but misconceived. It was only when his friends
forced him from his revulsion with the contemporary and drove him to
deal with newspaper events that he produced his enduring
masterpiece. Madame Bovary remains modern because Emma is
destroyed by money and consumerism; it was by getting down and dirty
with the facts of life in mid-nineteenth century France that
Flaubert saved himself from literary disaster. In and of itself,
exquisite artifice is impotent. As Alter argues, the imaginative
sympathy in Nabokov’s work is with the vulnerable and the
victimised, just as Flaubert’s is with the characters who are
damaged or destroyed by arrogance, ignorance and cynicism.
Simon Karlinksy, quoted by Alter, believes the creative imagination
renders its possessor “solitary” and “freak-like” and that this is
Nabokov’s abiding theme. It may well be true that exceptionally
creative people don’t fit easily into most social settings, but does
their fate deserve to be the prominent theme of art? Shakespeare,
Beethoven and Newton may have been misfits, but there were
compensations. Creative people sometimes struggle to get their work
accepted, of course, and it usually requires some time for their
achievement to be fully appreciated. The struggles of the neglected
genius are always an interesting theme, but perhaps Nabokov’s focus
has a tinge of egotism and self-pity. The idea that the creative
genius should receive tribute is dubious: special endowment brings
special moral responsibility. Surely artists and scientists should
be more concerned with how their work can help common folk to make
sense of the world than with the matter of their own rewards.
Invitation to a Beheading
is replete, Alter contends, with poshlust. Totalitarianism
loves kitsch. Phoney art is produced in excessive quantities and by
mechanical means. Nabokov, of course, isn’t spiking dictatorship
simply for its aesthetic idiocy, but the moral vacuity of
totalitarianism is reflected in its production of sentimental and
cheap sub-art. Totalitarianism is an easy target. More subtle is the
way putatively democratic societies use propaganda to control
thought and feeling and the way popular culture becomes incorporated
in that effort. There’s an interesting example in the way the
authorities in nineteenth century Britain (which wasn’t a democracy
for the mass of people) closed down the thriving, radical people’s
press. They tried the cudgel: legislation, imposition of taxes, but
it didn’t work. Then they hit on the idea of the market: if
newspapers could be funded by advertising, and if the advertisers
were businesses, the radical press could be squeezed out because
businesses don’t want to advertise to folk who have little money, or
in publications which put the employer-employee relationship in
question. Advertising as a way of funding the press made the radical
journals less price-competitive and together with rising costs of
establishing a paper or magazine, effectively bore down on the
radical publications and permitted the marketing-funded,
conservative press to gain ascendancy. The totalitarianism of the
market. Ostensibly, people can choose. In fact the system is set up
to make choice operate within very narrow limits. In the twentieth
century, post 1945, the Daily Herald had 8.1% of the national
UK readership but only 3.5% of advertising revenue. It was read and
liked by the common folk, but it went out of business because the
advertising model strangled it. That wasn’t accidental.
Poshlust
is characteristic of the culture of all so-called democracies,
particularly America. Trashy, popular culture dominates and assists
propaganda in the spread of stupefaction. Adulation of super-rich
but modestly talented celebrities transmogrifies into adoration of
Trump, the poshlust politician.
Nabokov is right that poshlust is characteristic of dictatorships,
but its prevalence in so-called democracies is perhaps more
insidious: in a totalitarian system everyone knows the cudgel, the
three a.m. knock, the prison cell, the gulag, the re-education
centre await all dissidents; in democracies, people are fooled into
thinking they are free and know what’s going on.
Alter quotes Mailer to good effect in this regard: “Sentimentality
is the emotional promiscuity of those who have no sentiment.” That
is just as true of the sensibility of apparently democratic cultures
as of the obviously totalitarian.
Writing of Nabokov’s memoir Speak, Memory, Alter says it
conveys the vividness of his past while recognising that every human
past is “swallowed up by oblivion”. Ultimately the universe will
attain the oblivion of heat-death, but in human time-scales, do all
lives fall into oblivion? The meaning of a life never ends with that
life. We live in the memories of others. In fact, the meaning of our
life is never what it means for us, but what it has meant for
others, which is why loneliness is so painful. We influence others
in ways we never know and our influence endures for centuries, in
small ways. The notion that every life disappears into oblivion is a
function of the egotism of modern culture, where people are
encouraged to posit their own view of themselves as the authentic
one; but the old adage that we can never see ourselves as others see
is potent: it’s what we don’t know about ourselves that others do
and it’s what we mean to them that gives our lives significance.
Alter evokes Nabokov’s “affirmed rejection of a real world outside
of literature and the mind” yet claims Nabokov had an “underlying
commitment to it”. It’s puzzling: a commitment to something you
reject? Clearly there is a real world beyond literature and the
mind. They have been possible for a mere seventy thousand years or
so, at most, and of course, literature had to wait for
alphabetisation, which is no more than a few thousand years old. The
real world of the universe is some three and three-quarter billion
years old. How can than not be real, unless reality is defined as
purely what goes on in human minds? Such an utterly anthropocentric
definition of reality robs the term of any sense. The earth as it
existed a million years ago was real enough, though we weren’t part
of it. Humanity needs to learn a little humility. We are a tiny part
of reality and will disappear long before the rest of it does.
Nabokov apparently saw art as a defence against chaos, which he took
to be the nature of things. Alter speaks of the form of chaos
represented, among other things,
by “the imbecilities of mass culture” . Are they chaotic? As
suggested above, they are deliberate. Mass culture is part of the
propaganda system and its purpose is to control thought and feeling
so that it tallies with the needs of the prevailing economic and
social regime. Nabokov is too serious to be part of it. It’s a fair
bet if you asked people at Trump rally who Nabokov was, you’d find
every few who know. That’s how it’s supposed to be. If the common
folk start reading Nabokov, Kafka, Carson McCullers and Fred Voss,
they might get some dangerous ideas in their heads.
One of Nabokov’s published lectures in on Dickens. He admired his
capacity for “figurative invention” as Alter puts it. Perhaps,
however, Nabokov ought to have reflected on Kafka’s comment in a
diary entry:
“Dickens’s opulence and great careless prodigality, but in
consequence, passages of awful insipidity in which he wearily works
over effects his has already achieved, leaves one with a barbaric
impression, because the whole does not make sense. There is a
heartlessness behind his sentimentally overflowing style, these rude
characterizations are stamped on everyone and without them, Dickens
cannot get on with his story, even for a minute.”
Nabokov is right about Dickens’s inventiveness, but Kafka has the
better of the argument. The whole is meaningless because of the
sentimental heartlessness, the characteristic attitude of the
nineteenth century British middle-classes. And Mailer is right about
sentimentality.
Nabokov was an excellent translator. He took the view that the
translator’s job was to get across the meaning. Alter, in discussing
the matter, refers to Adam Thirlwell’s intriguing The Delighted
States and picks up on the question of Flaubert, the great
stylist. He sees L’Education Setimentale as his greatest
novel, a view Flaubert himself rejected, criticising it for lacking
“la fausseté de la perspective”. Alter
thinks Madame Bovary more successful in translation because
carried along by the determinism of the story of self-deception and
demise, while in the later novel, nothing happens. In fact, a great
deal happens. The depictions of the June and February days of 1848
are among the best in French literature. That everything is filtered
through the narrator’s defeated sensibility isn’t the same as
nothing happening.
Alter is right, that the sound of words carries significance which
is hard to translate. The neuroscientist Ramachandran has suggested
that phonology isn’t arbitrary but emerges from a pre-existing
cross-translation between areas of the brain. Thus, small, tiny,
petit, malinki, pequeno are produced by small movements of the lips
and tongue; big, huge, grand, gros, bolshoi, by bigger movements.
Fudge, sticks the tongue to the roof of the mouth.
The theory may have
something to it, but for certain, translators have to sacrifice
something.
Alter does a competent job in defending his man. There is no doubt
Nabokov is a great writer. Like all writers he makes a virtue of his
shortcomings; but they are few. His contribution to world literature
is at the highest level. Alter is right: his detractors usually get
him wrong.
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