Vladimir Nabokov is an odd man, to
say the least; from his lepidopterist obsession that just borders on a
professional level, to his refusal to live in one home, he is a man with so
many interesting facets boiling under the surface, it is hard to believe his
outward personality seems so flat. He presents as quite arrogant at times,
repeatedly down-talking well renowned authors in his interviews, belittling the
questions of the interviewer which stray from the focus of his works and his
literary method. There is also a strong thread of sarcasm tying Nabokov’s
public persona together; he is a man full of quick wits and precise and biting retorts.
It is difficult to trust a biographer
who is interpreting whatever facts they have collected for themselves—though they
are, of course, trying to paint a precise picture, it is a picture that may be
affected by their own nature of perception. Since Nabokov is such a precise man
in mind and practice, or so it seems, it is even harder to trust this
biographer, as surely the commentary he has inflected does not accurately
account for the inner-workings of Nabokov’s life. It seems that Nabokov’s
reception was not poor in the U.S., as he toured the entire country, though his
reception at Cornell was not well at first. His first classes dwindled in size until
he taught Masterpieces of European Literature, and with the success of this
enormous 400-person class, his fellow professors finally approved of his
teaching at Cornell—or, rather, they could no longer be mad at him for not “pulling
his weight.”
There are several similarities and
several differences between Nabokov the writer and Nabokov the person. While
his outward personality comes off as chiding and cynical, his personal habits
present a much more delicate and careful man—though his writing is always undoubtedly
a meticulously woven quilt, his delicacy
as a lepidopterist exceeds the patience and creativity needed to craft writing
of his stature. Here is a man who is clearly obsessed with his own work, a
perfectionist, a careful mover—it is interesting to see this intricate mixture
coupled with a mouth-running, salary-raise-demanding, and sometimes
bordering-on-scornful man. His philosophy towards literature other than his own
is quite scientific, it seems—he tells Alfred Appel at one point that his “first
contact with Ulysses…was in the thirties at a time when I was definitely
formed as a writer and immune to any literary influence” (71). Surely, most modern
writers would agree that reading and writing are very reflective of each other,
and one could find new influences until their pen dropped and they stopped
breathing. It is clear, then, how methodical and meticulous Nabokov’s attitude
toward literature really is.
Aside from the clear presence of sarcasm
and arrogance, though, it is hard to get a view into Nabokov’s mind. It may be
fair to make a guess at some insecurity in Nabokov. He does not answer
interview questions on the spot, opting to read and write his answers
meditatively. It is also worth mentioning that he only drove a car twice in his
life, in refusal perhaps hinting at some fear of failure. The strength of his
writing may be a result of his nervous, insomniac tendencies in waking life,
opting to build fantastical stories where he knows he has full control over
what will happen next.
