One must address Nabokov.

True, countless analyses have preceded this endeavor, yet my forthcoming posts and literary observations necessitate establishing a clear point of reference - my personal interpretation of what I term "Nabokovianity"

The intellectual community, naturally, recognizes that with Nabokov, language precedes content. His works aren't so much narrative canvases as they are linguistic experiments and literary games elevated to the realm of art. We collectively acknowledge his stature in the literary pantheon. But what precisely constitutes this greatness?

There exist those who either fail to comprehend him (puzzled why this seemingly meandering, plot-thin prose qualifies as High Literature) or actively dislike him (precisely because they represent his target audience—quite literally, they were in his crosshairs). Yet questioning his literary genius remains somewhat déclassé. So wherein lies this genius?

The secret resides in his language and style - a particular alchemy of prose. But what comprises this secret?

Nabokov describes details and objects by revealing their equivalences, integrating them into the sensual sphere. His descriptions are object-metaphors. Thus, he achieves a fusion of spiritual and material realms into a singular whole-ness.

This is precisely why his literature enriches the reader - not through plot constructions or narrative arcs, but through these meaningful minutiae that become vessels of profound existential significance. Through sustained reading of his work, we master one of life's essential skills: the art of correlation. A glass on a table transcends its mere vessel status to become an emblem of existential solitude. An incongruous boulder in a park transforms into a metaphor for the intrusive, pseudo-jovial unneeded woman at another's wedding. The irritating drone of a fly metamorphoses into the embodiment of procrastination-induced guilt.

Each of his metaphors serves as a tutor in the art of self-knowledge - teaching us to recognize, articulate, and differentiate our emotional states. To identify and define our innermost desires beyond their superficial manifestations.

Even his seemingly obsessive sexuality carries a deeply enriching function, allowing for the desacralization of taboo subjects, the release of repressed impulses, the loosening of the knot of sexual toxicosis. He guides us through the self-loathing, and if we remain faithful companions until the end of this cathartic journey, we emerge purified. Hypocrisy yields to authentic humanity.

Indeed, he wasn't a solitary explorer of this territory—Sartre and Proust (et cetera, as the academic parlance goes) investigated similar domains with comparable tools. Yet Nabokov's approach possesses an almost scientific systematicity and methodological consistency. While Sartre and Proust aimed to convey specific philosophical concepts and ideas, Nabokov concentrated on these enriching imagistic details as self-sufficient aesthetic, consisting, and literary objectives.

Hence derives the fundamental impossibility of reading Nabokov rapidly. More precisely, such an attempt would result in a total failure to genuinely apprehend the text. Yes, the eye might mechanically trace the letterforms, but no authentic reading would occur. With Nabokov, superficial "familiarization" is ontologically impossible.

Consequently, the only legitimate approach is to dedicate specific time to him, to abandon all other literary pursuits, and to immerse oneself in the text with the same precision and contemplative depth with which it was created. In its essence, reading Nabokov demands a particular type of literary monasticism - a temporary withdrawal from the cacophony of contemporary literary consumption into a space of intense textual meditation.

Otherwise, when asked whether one has read Nabokov, the only honest response would be negative.
Any attempt to deceive the inquirer (assuming they themselves have truly read him) is destined for failure. For the genuine reader of Nabokov would respond as in my favorite literary anecdote about him:

"Have you read Nabokov?"
The tip of the tongue takes a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, against the teeth:
"No."