On Pnin
As I attempted to gather my thoughts on Pnin this past week, I came across this timely book review in the Guardian, which put into words many of my impressions about the novel. Every time I finish a good book and want to say something about it, I am frustrated by the fact that I do not have the sufficient language with which to frame my discussion (see my thoughts on Borges for an illustration). I suppose this is the type of thing that comes with studying literature, a task I regretfully neglected in college and am trying to catch up on now.
So instead of struggling through my own interpretation here, let me present a couple of paragraphs from the article that I thought summed up my feelings quite well:
A formidable body of commentary and exegesis has by now accumulated around this slim volume. But even first-time readers cannot fail to appreciate Nabokov's marvellous and distinctive way with words. The apparently effortless fertility of his metaphorical imagination is never employed ostentatiously for its own sake, but always to give us an enhanced awareness of reality. For example, Pnin's habit of breaking off from the prepared text of his lectures to interpolate some personal reminiscence is described as "those unforgettable digressions of his, when he would remove his glasses to beam at the past while massaging the lenses of the present" - a brilliant fusion of the literal and the metaphorical, of the physical and the emotional. Or take the more elaborated account of Pnin's reaction to the extraction of his teeth:"It surprised him to realize how fond he had been of his teeth. His tongue, a fat sleek seal, used to flop and slide so happily among the familiar rocks, checking the contours of a battered but still secure kingdom, plunging from cave to cove, climbing this jag, nuzzling that notch, finding a shred of sweet seaweed in the same old cleft but now not a landmark remained, and all there existed was a great dark wound, a terra incognita of gums which dread and disgust forbade one to investigate."
Pnin was a joy to read. Nabokov's style and choice of words are impeccable yet so seemingly effortless that all one can do is marvel at his ability. As if all this wasn't enough, he accomplished it in his second (or third?) language. His treatment of fictitious Waindell College is a hilarious commentary on academia. I also loved the character of Pnin for the traits of my father-in-law that were echoed in him (only positive, Kegla!): a passionate and humorous émigré trying to articulate himself (and his jokes) in a foreign language and culture, and holding a nostalgia for the country of his birth just below the surface.
As one Russian novel is completed, the next is begun. This time it's the big one: The Brothers Karamazov. It is a summer's work but I think it will be well worth the while.