Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited
by Vladimir Nabokov
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Read in April, 2008
Memory well spoken (3.5)--
Thought not the best of the stories I've read (literary-autobiography-wise, nothing I've read surpasses Bruno Schulz's The Street of Crocodiles), this charming, rather haphazardly collated collection of Nabokov's autobiographical episodes is certainly worth reading for its breathtaking prose, unique and incisive ruminations on various subjects, and revealing, behind-the-scenes vignettes and thoughts of one of the most fascinating writers of the 20th century. ...more
Thought not the best of the stories I've read (literary-autobiography-wise, nothing I've read surpasses Bruno Schulz's The Street of Crocodiles), this charming, rather haphazardly collated collection of Nabokov's autobiographical episodes is certainly worth reading for its breathtaking prose, unique and incisive ruminations on various subjects, and revealing, behind-the-scenes vignettes and thoughts of one of the most fascinating writers of the 20th century. ...more
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Read in October, 2007
Disgusting that a somebody could be such an amazing writer. (And this is a person born in Russia, writing in English!) The word "genius" seems to come up a lot when people speak of Nabokov. Having read this, I now understand.
It took me some time to become used to the way he writes. Nabokov often does not seem to care if his point is immediately clear to the reader. Some of the gems I found in this book I could just as easily have missed in a quicker read. So close attention is...more
It took me some time to become used to the way he writes. Nabokov often does not seem to care if his point is immediately clear to the reader. Some of the gems I found in this book I could just as easily have missed in a quicker read. So close attention is...more
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Read in January, 2004
recommends it for:
those who appreciate prose style and things Russian
A gift of a book, a beautiful memoir.
Whenever I start thinking of my love for a person, I am in the habit of immediately drawing radii from my love - from my heart, from the tender nucleus of a personal matter - to monstrously remote points of the universe. Something impels me to measure the consciousness of my love against such unimaginable and incalculable things as the behavior of nebulae (whose very remoteness seems a form of insanity), the dreadful pitfalls of eternity, the unknowledgeable beyond the unknown, the helplessness, the cold, the sickening involutions and interpenetrations of space and time. It is a pernicious habit, but I can do nothing about it. It can be compared to the uncontrollable flick of an insomniac's tongue checking a jagged tooth in the night of his mouth and bruising itself in doing so but still persevering. I have known people who, upon accidentally touching something - a doorpost, a wall - had to go through a certain very rapid and systematic sequence of manual contacts with various surfaces in the room before returning to a balanced existence. It cannot be helped; I must know where I stand, where you and my son stand. When that slow-motion, silent explosion of love takes place in me, unfolding its melting fringes and overwhelming me with the sense of something much vaster, much more enduring and powerful than the accumulation of matter or energy in any imaginable cosmos, then my mind cannot but pinch itself to see if it is really awake. I have to make a rapid inventory of the universe, just as a man in a dream tries to condone the absurdity of his position by making sure he is dreaming. I have to have all space and all time participate in my emotion, in my mortal love, so that the edge of its mortality is taken off, thus helping me to fight the utter degradation, ridicule, and horror of having developed an infinity of sensation and thought within a finite existence....more
Whenever I start thinking of my love for a person, I am in the habit of immediately drawing radii from my love - from my heart, from the tender nucleus of a personal matter - to monstrously remote points of the universe. Something impels me to measure the consciousness of my love against such unimaginable and incalculable things as the behavior of nebulae (whose very remoteness seems a form of insanity), the dreadful pitfalls of eternity, the unknowledgeable beyond the unknown, the helplessness, the cold, the sickening involutions and interpenetrations of space and time. It is a pernicious habit, but I can do nothing about it. It can be compared to the uncontrollable flick of an insomniac's tongue checking a jagged tooth in the night of his mouth and bruising itself in doing so but still persevering. I have known people who, upon accidentally touching something - a doorpost, a wall - had to go through a certain very rapid and systematic sequence of manual contacts with various surfaces in the room before returning to a balanced existence. It cannot be helped; I must know where I stand, where you and my son stand. When that slow-motion, silent explosion of love takes place in me, unfolding its melting fringes and overwhelming me with the sense of something much vaster, much more enduring and powerful than the accumulation of matter or energy in any imaginable cosmos, then my mind cannot but pinch itself to see if it is really awake. I have to make a rapid inventory of the universe, just as a man in a dream tries to condone the absurdity of his position by making sure he is dreaming. I have to have all space and all time participate in my emotion, in my mortal love, so that the edge of its mortality is taken off, thus helping me to fight the utter degradation, ridicule, and horror of having developed an infinity of sensation and thought within a finite existence....more
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Read in July, 2006
The favorite Nabokov for this reader thus far -- I loved the delicious pace and the descriptions and -- just all of it. Very interesting reading -- and I'm much more inclined to further explore the author now than I was upon reading Lolita!
Here is a summing up quote from my posts in the Constant Reader discussion of this book which says basically what I said above, though in more depth.:
What I find remaining with me from this book is the ebb and flow of the memory he feels he's kept ...more
Here is a summing up quote from my posts in the Constant Reader discussion of this book which says basically what I said above, though in more depth.:
What I find remaining with me from this book is the ebb and flow of the memory he feels he's kept ...more
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Read in June, 2007
Started this a few months ago and it slipped from my grasp, both literally and metaphorically, but resolved the former by finding it at the bottom of a pile and resumed reading, delightedly, on the subway this morning. While not quite ready to ride past my stop so as to continue, I did wish I were still at home (preferably in bed on a Sunday with everyone imagining I had not yet awoken) and at liberty to spend the morning on it.
In Paul Fussell's The Great War and Modern Memory, he di...more
In Paul Fussell's The Great War and Modern Memory, he di...more
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Nabokov's extraordinary journey - from a sumptuous pre-revolutionary Russian palace upbringing to the downtown boho chic of an American university - makes compelling reading. He is not an easily likeable character - his passion for lepidoptery sums him up well I think as a man with a certain emotional detachment - and his train of thought is frequently obscure. But his style is mesmorising and his use of language narcotic. And even when he appears to be making little sense or to be showing hims...more
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Read in May, 2008
"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."
Despite the brilliance of this first line, I found it enormously difficult to "get into" this book for the first two or three chapters. Then I found myself falling into his rhythm, flitting along like his ubiquitous butterflies, and suddenly I was pained to see it end. One of the greatest things I learned from this book, in terms...more
Despite the brilliance of this first line, I found it enormously difficult to "get into" this book for the first two or three chapters. Then I found myself falling into his rhythm, flitting along like his ubiquitous butterflies, and suddenly I was pained to see it end. One of the greatest things I learned from this book, in terms...more
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recommends it for:
Anyone who likes good writing, duh
Read his fiction first, then come to this. Otherwise, you end up seeing him take patterns he learned in his life and applying them over and over and over in his fiction.
But I loved N. a zillion times more as a nonfiction writer than a fiction writer. His prose has a lot more verve in nonfiction and all his best qualities do better in fiction.
This is his autobiography but he turns it into a beautiful meditation on memory. Like, freaking gorgeous. I'm not a super-literary dork, but I remem...more
But I loved N. a zillion times more as a nonfiction writer than a fiction writer. His prose has a lot more verve in nonfiction and all his best qualities do better in fiction.
This is his autobiography but he turns it into a beautiful meditation on memory. Like, freaking gorgeous. I'm not a super-literary dork, but I remem...more
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Read in March, 2007
This is, in my opinion, Nabokov's best work. The autobiography as a form suits Nabokov perfectly, as his novels are never so much about plot or 'big ideas,' just the intense poetic possibilities of language itself. So be forewarned, there is almost no useful information here. You may learn a thing or two about pre-Revolution Russia, a scrap of detail about his encounters with Joyce in Paris, or some tidbits about butterfly hunting, but really there's nothing to be learned, no story, no clues ...more
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Read in June, 2008
I'm a mixed bag about this book... Nabokov remains one of the greatest stylists of all time.
I felt about it the way I felt about Swann's Way. Filled with breathtaking passages of prose and the profound, philosophical insight that makes Nabokov such a master. That said, I'm less and less convinced Nabokov's a great long-form writer. The structure was loose; quasi-chronological, quasi-thematic. The only thing that really kept me going was his poetry... but as a 300-page work, I'm not sure tha...more
I felt about it the way I felt about Swann's Way. Filled with breathtaking passages of prose and the profound, philosophical insight that makes Nabokov such a master. That said, I'm less and less convinced Nabokov's a great long-form writer. The structure was loose; quasi-chronological, quasi-thematic. The only thing that really kept me going was his poetry... but as a 300-page work, I'm not sure tha...more
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He has an absolutely amazing vocabulary which he uses totally un-pretentiously and beautifully. I loved the way that he took forever to tell stories and never really got around to saying anything, and his dry sense of humour was great, as in the game of reminiscences about the writer that he played with his friend, and his descriptions of his tutors. It was really touching the way he adresses his wife in the writing (although without really giving any information about her).
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This might be plucking an idea from someone else's head, but I'd require my class to read this book before any other Nabokov title. I'm guessing most high school kids (college kids?) read Lolita first, but I was fortunate enough to have a professor who assigned this one before I could be introduced to Humbert Humbert.
Nabokov has such a unique brain. It seems important to understand that before taking on his imagination.
Nabokov has such a unique brain. It seems important to understand that before taking on his imagination.
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I just prefer his fiction. I understand that this is one of the most important autobiographies/memoirs ever written, but I fail to see why. I admit that Nabokov's "poetic prose" really shines through, at certain times; however, on the whole, I found the narrative voice to be frustrating, pompous, and oppressive.
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My sister and I both love the scene when the town peasants are tossing Nabokov's father into the air, and the only thing young Vladimir can see is his head appearing at the window every few seconds. Reading about how Nabokov associates letters with colors was mind-blowing, and I cannot get enough of his explanation about why he hates sleep. This would be best enjoyed after you had read several of his books.
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Read in January, 2005
It's charming to read Nabokov in non-(fiction-mode) (forgive my brackets but I'm a mathematician by training). His childhood memories are extraordinarily vivid (I can't help but recall Humbert Humbert: "I am a murderer with a sensational, but incomplete, memory"). The book resounds with two of his great loves: butterflies and chess. If you've ever read something Nabokovian and liked it, then do read this.
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Read in January, 2004
When you get to read a memoir of a writer you admire, it's like sharing an intimacy. Nabakov remains elusive to me because of his crazy brilliance, but in Speak, Memory, he shares his childhood and loves, chasing butterflies and associating color to the alphabet, loves he carried on into adulthood. A wonderful, non-linear narrative, of course; structured like the spiral snatchings of memory.
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Just an incredibly enjoyable book to read. Writing-wise, I think this might be Nabokov's best. It just rolls off the mental tongue and is very pleasing to the mind's ear. The picture it paints of pre-revolutionary Russia is very vivid and the feeling of loss associated with this is very affecting. Nabokov is still kind of a pompous jackass, but this makes him a much more sympathetic pompous jackass.
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Read in June, 2008
Speak Memory is an exceptional autobiography laced with many sentiments. Here you meet a rather emotional Nabokov, trying to hold precious pieces of memory like moments with his mother and the childhood of his son, not to mention the memories of his beloved Russian home and his first love, Tamara.It really is reminiscing rather than being biographic, and therefore far more sincere and enjoyable.
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Read in May, 2008
there's so much that's memorable here.
nabokov is very clear that he mourned less for the material loss of his family's estate that the loss of his childhood that could never be revisited after the bolchevik revolution.
he writes descriptively of that rarified existence and managed to transport me there, even from the heap of my little hovel.
ισχυρός - !
nabokov is very clear that he mourned less for the material loss of his family's estate that the loss of his childhood that could never be revisited after the bolchevik revolution.
he writes descriptively of that rarified existence and managed to transport me there, even from the heap of my little hovel.
ισχυρός - !
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Read in January, 2000
how hard it is to mine the actual past, instead of the invented past. I don't fully believe the man, but I believe his love for his own childhood which has led him to create a wonderfully complete terrain . . . even though some of it is doubtless spun out of the rags of memory, it's spun with such desire, you forgive it, and even more, you permit yourself to believe it.
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book data (includes all editions)
avg rating (all editions): 4.26 (976 ratings) avg rating (this edition): 4.08 (212 ratings) number of reviews: 76popular shelves
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"I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip."
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