The Life and Art of Vladimir Nabokov, Andrew Field

I’ve reached the end of Andrew Field’s weighty biography, The Life and Art of Vladimir Nabokov...and was astonished to see that the subject I’ve chosen for my dissertation is also the major concern of his now decades-old biography. I’m not about to change now what I have firmly decided upon, but I feel as though perhaps I may be writing something a little too obvious. But then, I am a lowly undergraduate, and a well-executed, compact reiteration of a sound argument, with individualistic impressions, readings and evidence that has only recently come to light, I should be able to produce something which will be well-received.

It feels good, to have perused my way through an entire mountain of Nabokovian literature, and I hope to have the entire thing written by the time tomorrow ends, or at the latest by Tuesday. I wish I had read Invitation to a Beheading, for one, and some of his youthful poetry, but I have a very thorough grounding in his works and his major themes, and what Field calls Nabokov’s ‘Narcissism’ will form the backbone of my extended essay.

Nabokov’s life was a fascinating one, and unlike Speak, Memory, Field’s biography showed the essentially human side of Vladimir Vladimirovich. He makes mistakes, he has gaping lacunas in his knowledge and while he was a genius, he was not as flawless as he may have liked us to believe. Field’s readings of some of the novels were a little dry, often stating the obvious, but I am aware of some elements that I was not previously, and in biographical detail and sheer enthusiasm, it was one of the better biographies I have read.

I was also delighted to see Ada damned in such decisive terms. I was beginning to fear I was the only one that didn’t feel that having to invest great lengths of time in a novel was equal to it being magnificent. To read not only Field but many other critics who I greatly respect unimpressed by the bloated, distended, selfish and arrogant work was a pleasure that I feel great guilt for enjoying, but enjoyed nonetheless.
Nabokov certainly shows the possibilities of prose. Stylistically, I can’t help but be influenced by him. In terms of subject, however, I will never let my writing be so self-centred, so short-sighted, so limited.