Is a haunting tale that crept into my siesta and grabbed hold of my heart. Playing with the borderline of reality and dreamland, the emotion lingered and tore me slowly, patiently, and gently. I had experienced waking up, both the feeling of fear and sadness.
Frankly, the plot is pointless to follow. Reported speech–liberally drenched in fantasy—makes it difficult for to really understand the gravity of any given event. Some slight details are exaggerated; some great events are offhandedly casual. Perhaps this is an element of beauty, as we entertain the possibility that we are within a deranged mind, in which values are mixed and skewed. Morality takes a different form through the narrator’s account.
The most beautiful part of this story is its writing. I admire any writer that maintains a strong friendship with punctuation and syntax. Nabokov paints with words. His word choice is of the highest grade, if not a bit effusive.
Some kitsch remarks above the novel: its repetition of the color blue and its frequent use of French is eye-roll worthy. I won’t bother with the basely symbolism of colors but without it, we wouldn’t get the full impressions of manic obsession which brings about unapologetic and revealing characterization. Secondly, there is a sufficient amount of French with no translation (in the advent of online translators this is no issue). Comprehension commentary aside, it reminds the reader of a different time where knowledge was self-contained and not as easily accessible and a great deal of detail would have been omitted if one was not able to speak French.
Quotes I particularly enjoyed: