Final Paper

Discontinuation Through The Continuation of Nabokov’s Works of Wonder

“She’s dead!? When did this happen?”

“I guess she died sometime last night”

“Oh, my God how is Mary and Allie doing?

They’re hanging in there…I mean I guess they were kind of just waiting for it, you know?

“Yeah, yeah I guess so”

I was 13 when my childhood friend Allie’s mother Mrs. Alesi died after a long battle with cancer, I can still go back to that exact moment, it is permanently etched into my memory and has come to the for front of my thought’s ever since we have begun this treacherously rewarding journey though Mr. Nabokov’s works of wonder. I couldn’t place the reason for this rehashed memory creeping its way to the forefront of my mind. I tried to accurately place it’s renewed existence except for maybe the fact that it was a memory, and Nabokov was quite enraptured by memories, as is transparently conveyed in our class’s first of his books. Speak Memory endlessly cites Nabokov’s multitudes of memories from his past. Then when plunging into the rest of his works the pattern of memory seemed to always make a rather grandiose appearance which never disappointed the Nabokovians of 431. But this connection between my memory of this circumstances failed to convince me of an adequate explanation, and I knew old V.D. wouldn’t have any use for contentment. So I moved on and explored deeper meanings and came to a find myself on the brink of touching comprehension.

*DISCLAIMER: I do not claim to understand Nabokov. I only claim to understand that I will never fully understand, but that will not deter me from always desiring to search explore, and sometimes discover what he has gifted to us all*

When moving past the connections that were made between my past memory and Nabokov’s mentions memory, I came to find myself diving right back into a deeper pool of further exploration.

“Whenever in my dreams, I see the dead, they always appear silent, bothered, strangely depressed, quite unlike their dear bright selves. I am aware of them, without any astonishment, in surroundings they never visited during their earthly existence, in the house of some friend of mine they never knew. They sit apart, frowning at the floor, as if death were a dark taint, a shameful family secret. It is certainly not then — not in dreams — but when one is wide awake, at moments of robust joy and achievement, on the highest terrace of consciousness, that mortality has a chance to peer beyond its own limits, from the mast, from the past and its castle-tower. And although nothing much can be seen through the mist, there is somehow the blissful feeling that one is looking in the right direction”.

When I look back on that memory I don’t remember the person, who told me that she had died, or the funeral, or anything that can be described in the context of exterior human consciousness. What I remember was the flood of memories that intercept my thoughts swiftly, all of which involved Mrs. Alesi. The memories began to settle and simmer, then there was a clear image in my mind of a picture that had been taken of Mrs. Alesi helping her daughter and I bake cookies. The picture was so realistic in my mind, except for one thing, Mrs. Alesi was missing. The spot in the picture that once held her image was blurred and faded, it was indistinguishable. She was gone. The idea of death finally seemed to sink in and take on its own identity. All of this being said I felt like my understanding of a one’s mortality seemed reasonable but slightly skewed, I mean how can someone live on forever in my mind, yet not have a tangible existence? This is where my I began to feel a syncing with our honored author, one might call it my “Aha!” moment. Throughout the text we read I saw the pattern of mortal’s immortality. Vladimir used so many venues to convey to his audience his grasp of the frail and ever fleeting human race.

We’ll begin with Lolita “Imagine me: I shall not exist if you do not imagine me," pleads Humbert Humbert. This line is was my entrance to the rabbit hole. Vladimir writes about his character who then addresses his audience which is any willing reader that fingers through this book. There is a layering here of the immortal and mortal communication, H.H is a character who is immortal for he was never given breath, but was given life by a man and his pen. Therefore even though he never really lived, he will also never fully die. Then we shift to his creator, who through creating a immortal being, also attains an immortal status due to the fact the Humbert’s words will always exist, which are consequently the words that were spoken through Vladimir. He will always have a connection to mortal being that pick up Lolita, he will always have words in which affect and influence those who still live and breathe. Shifting now to the mortal beings, who traffic his word and keep them alive. Just in this class alone we have confirmed the life of Humbert’s character, we have even reenacted physical replicas of him. Proving him right when he says, “I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, and the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita”.

This line took me awhile start to feel as though I was looking in the right direction through the mist, but I came to see that Humbert and Vladimir are exposing to the reader the relationship that the non-existent has with the existing. They are both transcending each other’s boundaries by superseding their own being. All of the things he list before the very last sentence have stayed intact because of we the observers, carry it over into the next day, week, month, year son on and so forth, always giving it rebirth and new breath. Humbert tells us that we are doing the same thing in regards to him and even better yet in regards to Lolita. He knows this because we know this, and we wouldn’t have known this had we not read last line.

Then moving into the next text Pale Fire beginning from the point where my mind started to grab a hold of this multi dimensional poem:

“I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.”

Nabokov starts us right off the image of death and the concept of immortality though the means of reflection. The waxwing may have been depleted from life in the tangible form, but the reflective form proves to be separated from that entirely, as if being a wholly separated word that we know exists, but are mortally prohibited from entering. Shade seems to surpass this vague but oh so apparent periphery, and sees what the waxwing sees, which is not merely dying but continuing on in the reflection of the window. The next quote also exposes that he internally comprehends that there is some other great force that is at play here.

“..A syllogism; other men die

But I am not another: therefore I'll not die”

He moves on past the realm of the living and is able to relay that the act of existences is not understood by other men, so how would they understand the afterlife. Those who can’t understand the power of living will ultimately just cease to continue on. Shade on the other hand is like his creator V.D., he understands that there is a continuum in the reflective sky, and those reflections will keep us forever alive. Shade’s reflection is Pale Fire, being that it is his poem will do what Nabokov did for himself which is creating a reflective identity that will live on past their own existence, and carry on over into another existence where in which they do cannot reside.

“What moment in that gradual decay

Does resurrection choose? What year?

Who has the stopwatch? Who rewinds the tape?

Are some less lucky, or do all escape?

This line comes from canto two in John Shade’s Pale Fire, which was only one of countless examples of Nabokov’s speaking through his character to convey his feelings towards the act of death and dying. He intricately takes apart the frailty of life and how people have such little control over what happens to them when their number is drawn. When I first read through the poem this was made clear, but I had not really paid enough attention to all of the assorted and complex layers that were stacked one on top of other. There is so much going on the first time you read through the entire book that it becomes difficult to look closely at the multitudes of meanings that are at work here. During one of my re-reads of this book (there seemed to be a few times that I had to go back and re-read in order to be reborn as a reader and discoverer) I chose to read Shade’s poem and only Shade’s poem. This might have been a mistake on my part, for I went a little mad after realizing all of the skillfully placed associations there were in regards to the poem and other Nabokovian pieces which we have submitted our minds to this semester. One association comes from a line in Speak Memory. “The cradle rocks above an abyss and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more calm than the one he is heading for (at some forty-five hundred heartbeats an hour)”. I think that Nabokov is using the questions as posed by Shade to ask the question of whether or we are aware of life all encompassing, where we originated, where we’re at, and where we’ll go. There is so much uncertainty, but then why not ask questions and search for answers. We continue on in this small crack of light, but there are two eternities that exist on either sides of that small crack of what might be considered life, which only gives a shy glimpse of what is undoubtedly a bigger picture.

I guess that is where I now find myself reflecting with only a minuscule view of a conclusion to this initial question that all began with a memory. There may not have been a person in my recollection of that photograph, but I think that is because I was unable to see the big picture. That will only lead me to search more and cause great pains when feeling as though I am running around in circles with disillusioned attempts of being able to catch my own tail. But I guess it’s only fair to say that I feel as though…