Maschenka

As the story went on it became less interesting. It may be a short novel but the second half was unbearable to read.

The good thing is, that it shows clearly that Nabokov is good at storytelling and it comes at no surprise. After all, it is the least what we can expect of those who inherited The Golden Age of Russian Literature.

Another good thing that made me look forward to read his early works is that he translated them, and sometimes with his son Dmitri.

It's not like the Nabokov I know to write a Russian book, but despite its Berlin setting, this is a very Russian book. There's a Dostoyevsky-like dinner scene, mentions of revolutions and Cossacks, stealing money from drawers and of course plenty of drunkenness. It's strange to get so much of it from an author that despite his origins, feels so American. Still, amidst all the uncharacteristic Russianness, there is a definite hint of what was to come in later Nabokov novels.

There's some of the cynicism:

“Vulgar little man,” thought Ganin as he watched Alfyorov's twitching beard. “I bet his wife's frisky. It's a positive sin not to be unfaithful to a man like him.”

Back in his room he tried to read, but he found the contents of the book so alien and inappropriate that he abandoned it in the middle of a subordinate clause. He was in the kind of mood that he called ‘dispersion of the will.'

And in those streets, now as wide as shiny black seas, at that late hour when the last beer-hall has closed, and a native of Russia, abandoning sleep, hatless and coatless under an old mackintosh, walks in a clairvoyant trance; at that late hour down those wide streets passed worlds utterly alien to each other: no longer a reveler, a woman, or simply a passer-by, but each one a wholly isolated world, each a totality of marvels and evil.

Nabokov's first novel, and, as he says in the introduction, a purging of himself and his own experiences so that he could get on with writing other things. I identified with Ganin's feeling of depression as a result of having no desire. The scenes in the boarding house are wonderful as are the passages inside Ganin's head. Overall it's a tight book and a quick read.

—

‰ЫПHe spent about an hour drinking coffee, staring at a picture window and watching the passers-by. Back in his room he tried to read, but he found the contents of his book so alien and inappropriate that he abandoned it in the middle of a subordinate clause. He was in the kind of mood that he called ‰Ычdispersion of the will.‰ЫЄ He sat motionless at his table unable to decide what to do: to shift the position of his body, to get up and wash his hands, or to open the window, outside which the bleak day was fading into twilight. It was a dreadful, agonizing state rather like that dull sense of unease when we wake up but at first cannot open our eyelids, as though they were stuck together for good. Ganin felt that the murky twilight which was gradually seeping into the room was also slowly penetrating his body, transforming his blood into fog, and that he was powerless to stop the spell that was being cast on him by the twilight.

‰ЫПHe was powerless because he had no precise desire, and this tortured him because he was vainly seeking something to desire. He could not even make himself stretch out his hand to switch on the light. The simple transition from intention to action seemed an unimaginable miracle. Nothing relieved his depression, his thoughts slithered aimlessly, his heartbeat was faint, his underclothes stuck unpleasantly to his body.‰Ыќ