Speak, Memory... and tell me something new: Prompt #3

Nabokov can write the hell out of a memoir. His prose is intensive, meticulous, the kind of writing that manages to be both expressive and controlled. Reading his memoir, I felt as if he were not only elucidating me as to the relevant figures and dates of his life, but also indoctrinating me into the Nabokov way of thinking.

His words wound circuitously about my mind as I read, and I feel almost sad that I haven't had the time to fully appreciate his writing. A bout of strep throat laid me low this past week and reading Nabokov unfortunately was usurped by my need to both get well and ace my OEB midterm on Friday (both tasks I failed at!).

However, from what I have read, I can begin to discern certain nascent themes in his memoir. From the very first chapter, Nabokov establishes his own presence within the memoir. His voice acts as both the narrator of the work and as its main protagonist, and his rich memory is the setting in which Speack Memory's narrative arc arises. The theme that struck me in what I have read thus far is Nabokov's seeming fascination with death. There is first and foremost the beginning sequence in which Nabokov describes life as "a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness." And as the book progresses, Nabokov heralds with equal parts reverence and introspection the lives and eventual deaths of many of his family members. Yet death in Nabokov's world lacks morbidity. He refers to the deaths of dear family members with elegaic beauty but with no hint of grief. If there's an emotion present it would be a serene calm if anything. Nabokov seems to be more interested with perpetuating the legacies of his ancestors (and by default his own) than he is with the tragedy of their passing. Death is thus made immutable and expressive. There was life--wondrous, explosive, explosive and raw--and then there was death, by execution or heart attack or all manner of assorted causations.

And tying it all together is Nabokov's crisp, clean voice and you the reader can feel yourself falling into the pages like leaves of his life and feeling loamy, black earth between your toes.