Vladimir Nabokov: Pale Fire

[Sybarite]

Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov

Poet John Shade has been murdered, 999 lines into a 1,000-line poem in four cantos ? the Pale Shade of the title.

So what we have here is Shade's unfinished final work, sandwiched between a foreword and extensive commentary from his editor and friend, Charles Kinbote.

The poem, in rhyming couplets, appears to be autobiographical, dealing greatly with issues such as mortality and the 'meaning of life', including a heart attack that Shade has survived, and the apparent suicide of his daughter.

But Kinbote's commentary shows us that, in fact, the poem is a largely disguised version of the heroic events in the eastern European nation of Zembla, where a revolution has just overthrown the monarchy; a story that Kinbote ? a refugee from that country ? has told Shade during their brief acquintance.

And it also becomes clear that Kinbote is, the deposed final Zemblan king, Charles Xavier.

But is all as it seems here? Who is Kinbote really? Is he the king in exile? Or is he a fantasist and, effectively, a thief of Shade's final work, both in terms of physically removing the text to edit it himself, and artistically, in terms of changing the meaning of the poem? Is he sane or is he mad? Is he dangerous?

And what of Vladimir Nabokov? Was he targeting literary critics and editors here? What is he saying about monarchy and revolution? Is Shade a poor poet and Kinbote the real genius?

Pale Fire is written in such a way, with Nabokov's usual scintillating use of language, that it plays with the reader. It's difficult, for instance, not to get really rather angry with Kinbote: a rude, crass, arrogant, delusional creation whose imagined neck one could quite happily twist ? because it's so easy to read this as a real poem with Kinbote's contributions being equally real.

Indeed, it's difficult to imagine that Nabokov could have created a more unpleasant character than Lolita's Humbert Humbert ? but in Kinbote he has achieved that.

There's a real sense of authorial mischief here. It's funny and frustrating and compelling and wildly inventive in the sheer nature of what it is.

Pick this apart ? Pale Fire is a mind fuck on a grand scale. And utterly brilliant.

[nnyhav]

So glad you liked my favorite book, by my favorite author. My Lit 202, its literary allusion thick as thieves; litcritical flypaper, in which no commentator has the last word (we are all Kinbote now). It launched my involvement (not counting Usenet) in bookchat (NYTimes' now-defunct bookfora) via the Nabokov listserv, and sparked a blogpost series (not intended as such to start with, just turned out that way) 3 years ago, in which I explored some of its many aspects:

prelude:
The Valve - A Literary Organ | Uncruel Beauty? (preblog)
Stochastic Bookmark: Dear Bunny, Dear Volodya
Stochastic Bookmark: Nabokov's Theme

on Pale Fire:
Stochastic Bookmark: Pale Fire: A Primer
Stochastic Bookmark: The Garden
Stochastic Bookmark: From Marvell to Pushkin
Stochastic Bookmark: errata tat tat
Stochastic Bookmark: Transversion
Stochastic Bookmark: The Antinomy of Criticism

postscript: the last posting earned an odd citation:
Maud Bodkin - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

One other thing: don't neglect the Index!!!

[Sybarite]

... One other thing: don't neglect the Index!!!

Drat! You're right ? I forgot to mention that.

I cannot even begin to imagine the kind of mind that can conceive a book like this. Amazing.

[nnyhav]

I folded the above in to a continuation of the series:
Stochastic Bookmark: Waxwing philosophical: a hermeneutic interpretation of Pale Fire

[Eric]

From Sybarite's original description (barring the penultimate sentence...), Pale Fire does indeed sound to be an interesting book. I've only read Pnin and Lolita (despite good intentions), but I may give Glory and Ada a miss, and go on to this, when I've got time.

[titania7]

I appreciate the postings by Sybarite and others, but, truth be told, _Pale Fire_ strikes me as more of a calculated exercise in ingenuity than a spontaneous work of art. I am in the midst of reading it presently, and I'm simply not enjoying it at all. I'm starting to think I have a love/hate relationship with Nabokov. I disliked Lolita, though I adore his short stories and definitely admired Laughter in the Dark,
King, Queen, Knave, and (to a lesser extent) Mary.

But back to Pale Fire.....

I almost feel as if Nabokov is saying, "Look at what a genius I am." It's obvious he's brilliant, but this is a work of immense calculation. It's very clever and extremely innovative. At the same time, it is soulless. There is no music behind the words. They're merely words. I find the commentary part of the book pedantic. Not that Nabokov can't be pedantic, at times. I think what disappoints me most about Pale Fire is that it fails to touch me on any level. I read that Nabokov hated music, and I don't believe I've ever seen this hatred show itself more vividly than in this book. The poem by the fictitious "John Shade" is beautiful. I have no criticism about that. But the commentary? My God, it is so wordy! You know, sometimes more can be said in fewer words. I'm not certain I'll even finish reading Pale Fire, because life is short and time is precious, and there are so many books out there that I haven't yet read and deeply yearn to read.

As for Lolita, I'm cognizant of the fact it's almost a sacrilege to criticize a work of such popularity and critical acclaim, particularly among literary circles. But I have never been a conformist. Indeed, I am far from it. My thoughts and opinions are all my own and no matter how strange, eccentric, or downright unpopular they may be, I refuse to apologize for them.

titania7

"To be nobody--but--yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else--means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop
fighting."
~e.e.cummings

[Sybarite]

Hi titania7 ? I do know what you mean about Nabokov being 'too clever'.

But, certainly for me, Pale Fire got under my skin ? not least because I had a really strong response to Kinbote.

[nnyhav]

Hey, not everyone connects with this, or with Nabokov, whom some find too clever by half (or more), and indeed Pale Fire has been dismissed as empty parody. There's no need to defend one's taste (de gustibus and all that), and Nabokov doesn't need defenders (Gessen has some fun with this), but I do take issue with the idea that calculation is inartistic: all the training that artists of every stripe undertake is prerequisite to the best artistic expression (Nabokov refers elsewhere to "the passion of the scientist, the precision of the artist"). Nabokov, like Conrad (though he despised the comparison), was a rigorous stylist, another foreigner who taught the natives the music intrinsic to the language (btw it was jazz, not music generally, which Nabokov [like Shade] disliked); Kinbote's pedantic commentary is a reflection of and upon Kinbote. If you think these are but wild and whirling words, you may find Pnin or Speak, Memory more amenable.

[titania7]

I think I'm going to take another stab at Pale Fire in spite of my criticisms of it. Who knows? Perhaps I'll even find some splendid things to say about it when I get finished with it.

Sybarite, you often seem to express yourself with a certain succinct dexterity in your postings. I always look forward to hearing what you have to say. Nabokov is a writer to "get under one's skin"--there's no doubt about that. That is quite an apt way to describe the impact his works can have on a person.

Nnyhav, thanks for the recommendations. I will put Pnin and Speak, Memory on my to-read list. I was unaware that Nabokov specified the kind of music he didn't like. Being a former classical musician myself, I tend to take umbrage at someone not appreciating music.
Not that everyone isn't entitled to their own opinions, mind you.
There are just certain opinions (such as a deep hatred of music) that probably shouldn't be shared with me . At any rate, Nabokov quite possibly enjoyed some classical music. I would like to think so, at any rate.

For the record, I did not mean to imply that artistry and calculation are mutually exclusive. Personally, I think Henry James is an intensely stylized writer. However, he is still artistic. The same goes for Edith Wharton. Since I've only read "Heart of Darkness" by Joseph Conrad, I am, most regrettably, unqualified to make a comment.

titania7

"In the carraiges of the past you can't go anywhere."
~Maxim Gorky

[nnyhav]

Let me qualify (that is, correct) what I said about Nabokov and music: while hating jazz, he was more generally unaffected by instrumental music:

"I have no ear for music, a shortcoming I deplore bitterly. When I attend a concert--which happens about once in five years--I endeavor gamely to follow the sequence and relationship of sounds but cannot keep it up for more than a few minutes. Visual impressions, reflections of hands in lacquered wood, a diligent bald spot over a fiddle, these take over, and soon I am bored beyond measure by the motions of the musicians." [from Strong Opinions]

"Although both my parents had absolute pitch, music, I regret to say, affects me merely as an arbitrary succession of more or less irritating sounds. Under certain emotional circumstances I can stand the spasms of a rich violin, but the concert piano and all wind instruments bore me in small doses and flay me in larger ones." [from Speak, Memory, discussing his synesthesia]

On the other hand, he harbored a deep appreciation of song, the combination of words with music being not far removed from the "plangent tonalities" of poetry, and he considers musicality a virtue in many other artistic endeavors. But 'a shortcoming I deplore bitterly' or 'I regret to say' suggests something other than hating music, more rather hating the effect it has upon him.

[jackdawdle]

this book takes a little getting used to but once embraced it's as funny as funny can be.

my favorite scenes include the aborted houghmagandy between garrh and kinbote and jakob's bowel troubles as he's at the cusp of dispatching his target.

[nnyhav]

On Nabokov and music, via the listserv:
Gerard de Vries, "Nabokov's Pale Fire, its structure and the last works of J.S. Bach" takes up the contrapuntal theme.

[Jayaprakash]

Currently reading PALE FIRE and I have to agree with Sybarite, the phrase 'mind fuck' occurred to me several times too. I don't believe it is just an exercise in cleverness (although I admit that many things I like tend to be dismissed as such, so who am I to say, &c). There is the emotional content of the poem itself and then multiple levels of pathos displayed by Kinbote/Botkin even as he emerges as some kind of monster. I feel it's a story that moves me emotionally, first by way of misdirection and then again as I piece together the clues and set aside the red herrings (or do you ever? I sense that multiple readings could evoke multiple interpetations). It just takes that much more effort to engage with the heart of the story, and if that effort is by way of fictional games and puzzles, well, it is my idea of fun at any rate.

No one who has ever read CAT'S CRADLE by Kurt Vonnegut would ever neglect the index in a book like this!

[Liam]

Came across a curious little short-story by O. Henry, which made me think of Nabokov's Pale Fire: The Prisoner of Zembla (1919).

I'll include the entire text of the original story below, for anyone who cares to peruse it.

It seems that the "mythic" Zembla had already been used before Nabokov came to invent it, .

The Prisoner of Zembla

So the king fell into a furious rage, so that none durst go near him for fear, and he gave out that since the Princess Ostla had disobeyed him there would be a great tourney, and to the knight who should prove himself of the greatest valor he would give the hand of the princess.

And he sent forth a herald to proclaim that he would do this.

And the herald went about the country making his desire known, blowing a great tin horn and riding a noble steed that pranced and gambolled; and the villagers gazed upon him and said: "Lo, that is one of them tin horn gamblers concerning which the chroniclers have told us."

And when the day came, the king sat in the grandstand, holding the gage of battle in his band, and by his side sat the Princess Ostla, looking very pale and beautiful, but with mournful eyes from which she scarce could keep the tears. And the knights which came to the tourney gazed upon the princess in wonder at her beauty, and each swore to win so that he could marry her and board with the king. Suddenly the heart of the princess gave a great bound, for she saw among the knights one of the poor students with whom she had been in love.

The knights mounted and rode in a line past the grandstand, and the king stopped the poor student, who had the worst horse and the poorest caparisons of any of the knights and said:

"Sir Knight, prithee tell me of what that marvellous shacky and rusty-looking armor of thine is made?"

"Oh, king," said the young knight, "seeing that we are about to engage in a big fight, I would call it scrap iron, wouldn't you?"

"Ods Bodkins!" said the king. "The youth hath a pretty wit."

About this time the Princess Ostla, who began to feel better at the sight of her lover, slipped a piece of gum into her mouth and closed her teeth upon it, and even smiled a little and showed the beautiful pearls with which her mouth was set. Whereupon, as soon as the knights perceived this, 217 of them went over to the king's treasurer and settled for their horse feed and went home.

"It seems very hard," said the princess, "that I cannot marry when I chews."

But two of the knights were left, one of them being the princess' lover.

"Here's enough for a fight, anyhow," said the king. "Come hither, O knights, will ye joust for the hand of this fair lady?"

"We joust will," said the knights.

The two knights fought for two hours, and at length the princess' lover prevailed and stretched the other upon the ground. The victorious knight made his horse caracole before the king, and bowed low in his saddle.

On the Princess Ostla's cheeks was a rosy flush; in her eyes the light of excitement vied with the soft glow of love; her lips were parted, her lovely hair unbound, and she grasped the arms of her chair and leaned forward with heaving bosom and happy smile to hear the words of her lover.

"You have foughten well, sir knight," said the king. "And if there is any boon you crave you have but to name it."

"Then," said the knight, "I will ask you this: I have bought the patent rights in your kingdom for Schneider's celebrated monkey wrench, and I want a letter from you endorsing it."

"You shall have it," said the king, "but I must tell you that there is not a monkey in my kingdom."

With a yell of rage the victorious knight threw himself on his horse and rode away at a furious gallop.

The king was about to speak, when a horrible suspicion flashed upon him and he fell dead upon the grandstand.

"My God!" he cried. "He has forgotten to take the princess with him!"

[Bjorn]

There seems to be some discussion a-brewin' around Nabokov again: Should "Pale Fire", the poem, be published on its own, separate from Pale Fire, the novel? One publisher seems to think so.

Free "Pale Fire"! The next big Nabokov controversy. - By Ron Rosenbaum - Slate Magazine

[Liam]

I don't see why it should. It's not a particularly good poem, the only way it can justify its exhistence is to be part of the novel. People need to stop cutting up Nabokov's dead cadaver for more and more relics; it's kind of unseemly.

[Bjorn]

I tend to agree, though I do find the idea of publishing it independently interesting - it would be a far lesser work, but the mere existence of the poem as a work in itself would be sure to put an interesting spin on how people read the novel.

Oh, and apparently I'd forgotten to post my review of Pale Fire here.

***

Right, so, Pale Fire it is then. The story of an escaped king, a murdered poet, or possibly neither.

Man's life as commentary to obstruse
Unfinished poem. Note for further use.*

* If I correctly understand the sense of this succinct observation, our poet suggests here that human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece.

1. I put off reading this book for well over a year simply because I don't, as a rule, read poetry. Don't get me wrong: it's not a matter of principal... sorry, principle, but rather that I knew enough about what it was (an unreliable interpretation of a poem) to doubt my own ability to catch Kinbote in the act. I could catch Humbert because I knew the novel conventions he hid behind, the references he used to defend himself. Not being a fan of poetry, I thought I wouldn't be able to do the same here. I'm not sure whether or not I was right.

2. From that perspective, I can't help but be somewhat underwhelmed by John Shade, if he exists. "Pale Fire" strikes me as a rather prosaic poem, the odd glimmer of beauty (that first stanza!) and/or meaning notwithstanding. This may or may not be the point.

3. Kinbote, if he exists, is a despicable but fun character. Part overzealous critic (scoffing at critics who draw far-reaching conclusions even as he maintains that another man's autobiography is his own in code), part psycho stalker, part complete mythomaniac.

4. Zembla, if it exists, is an impossibility; like a never-russified Novgorod ("new town"), the language an occasionally hilarious mixture of Scandinavian, German and Slavic. As Nabokov has Kinbote (or has Shade or Botkin have Kinbote) point out, the name indicates both "land" and "mirror"; it is, or it just resembles that which is. It's explicitly said to not be Novaya Zemlya; does that make it the not-new, the old world? There's that "Lolita as metaphor for the old world falling for the shininess of America" theory again. Which, of course, Nabokov scoffed at.

5. This, of course, runs through everything. Pale Fire is full of shadow images (is that Plato's blasted cave again?), fairground mirrors, opposites, dark halves, colours, flowers - obviously metaphorical and symbolical language that comes together in a way that emphasizes its own artifice. In other words, there are things that are too obvious, too deliberate, to be true.

6. Kinbote cannot be telling the truth; his story is too absurd, he knows too much about everyone. This much is true, at least within the novel (which of course in turn is a lie by Nabokov, the wealthy Russian who emigrated to the US and whose father was murdered by accident.) What's more, it's doubtful whether Kinbote knows he's not telling the truth - because he might not even exist. There are points in the text (starting on page one, that "very loud amusement park") which seem designed to call his authenticity into question; who would actually write that? How could someone as intelligent (if deranged) as he clearly is be as blind as the story requires him to be in order to not notice his own fictional status? Not only is his narration unreliable - the very existence of a narration is itself unreliable.

7. Likewise, Shade himself - for all the biographical information both Kinbote and Shade himself give us - is, in name and deed, a shadow (or Shadow). He only speaks in poetry and in sarcastic putdowns. His last poem starts, continues, and ends with his own death, following shortly after the poem is (un)finished. Does that seem right to you?

8. So Shade writes a poem, Kinbote writes the footnotes. Or Shade writes a poem and invents Kinbote to tell a different story in the footnotes. Or Nabokov invents Shade and Kinbote. Or... etc. The text is an interpretation of itself that itself demands to be interpreted while mocking those who would interpret it. There's endless permutations, not one of them is completely improbable, and the word is indeed "mindfuck".

9. And yet. And yet. I find myself agreeing exactly with John Self here:

If Kinbote really is entirely detached from reality, and his fantasies are just that, then what significance do they have? They are entertaining and frequently funny (particularly Kinbote's rampant homosexuality from an early age, with his numerous 'ping-pong partners') but do they have any real correspondences to the poem? (...) It doesn't have the emotional force of Lolita to add to its cerebral challenges, whereas lollypop Lol's got the lot.

I'd even go so far as to ask what significance the story itself has to anything if there's not one fixed point, not one opening where we can say "OK, THIS really happened, if perhaps not quite in this way; now, let's see what that implies for everything else he says." For all we know, everything here is Kinbote's invention. For all we know, none of it is. Without any "real" (within the fiction) basis, we haven't got a leg to stand on. We're just turning in ever-narrower circles around a novel that may or may not have a centre, chasing our own tale.

10. That's not a huge complaint, and perhaps it's even the point, but it does lead me to admire the book more than I love it. Pale Fire is an astounding work; it's so full of tricks, trompe l'?ils, hidden passages, masks and question marks that I could re-read it right now and probably come to a completely different conclusion about everything in it. It's funny as hell. It constantly undercuts itself and forces the reader to re-evaluate his/her opinion of what's going on. And somewhere underneath, there's serious issues to address. But unlike Lolita, it never captivates me - at least not this time around. I can't give it less than , though.

[mesnalty]

Admittedly, my taste in poetry isn't particularly good, whatever the heck that means, but I'm inclined to agree with the author of that Slate article that the poem itself is really, really excellent. Maybe the critical reception would have been different if the poem had originally been published by itself, before being turned into Pale Fire; maybe not.

[Mirabell]

the poem itself is really, really excellent.

I don't think it is. Actually I don't think it's meant to be.
De gustibus...

[jackdawdle]

1. I put off reading this book for well over a year simply because I don't, as a rule, read poetry.

that begs the question, what is poetry?

if you ask me, it is random words seemingly combined to make truth and beauty.

and by that definition poetry and prose aren't merely kissing cousins, they're brother and sister in incest.

but back to topic, pale fire was on nabokov's mind as far back a s his russian phase, when he was busy with the gift and the enchanter. he purged some of the material by writing bend sinister but it was still with him when he wrote lolita and pnin.

it's been said that pale fire is a paean to vladislav hodasevich the finest of the emigre russain poets. as to pale fire, the poem itself, it is as everything that nabokov ever published, worth reading. memorizing is the highest tribute however and as of yet i can't say that i have.