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Ian "Marvin" Graye's Reviews > The Real Life of Sebastian Knight
The Real Life of Sebastian Knight
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by
CRITIQUE:
The Continuum of the Rabbit Hole
Over the course of his writing career, Vladimir Nabokov would often return down the rabbit hole of his imagination to find styles, ideas, thoughts and expressions that he had used in past fiction or stored there for use in future fiction.
In his previous novel, "The Gift", a character encourages the narrator to write a "biographie romancée" (a biographical novel or fictitious biography) about a famous nineteenth century Russian writer.
Notwithstanding Nabokov's apparent scorn for the art form, "The Real Life" is just such a novel. It purports to be a biography of the narrator's half-brother, Sebastian (a novelist), but could, in fact, be a fiction about the narrator, or even Nabokov, himself (the narrator is known only as "V", "V. Sirin" being a nom de plume Nabokov used early in his career).
The Shaping of a Certain Lie
Despite his own diligent research (some of which required a private detective, in order to verify and "animate the past"), V warns us against unreliable narrators:
The Embedding of Nina Lecerf
Madame Nina Lecerf, a femme fatale who might have been Sebastian's last secret lover (albeit in a desperately unhappy relationship), and who proves adept at concealment, at least of her own identity and past, claims:
In response to V's pointed and persistent questioning, she declares:
At times, Madame Lecerf seems to be the type of woman who would end up in bed in one of Graham Greene's entertainments. Indeed, V admits that he, too, considered the possibility of a tryst (even if Sebastian mightn't have).
The Narcissism of the Reader/ Biographer/ Critic
As "Pale Fire" would subsequently do with respect to Charles Kinbote, "The Real Life" aims to correct the biographer/ critic, Mr Goodman's, erroneous factuality and misguided interpretation of Sebastian's life and literary works:
What is missing from Goodman's study is any fidelity to the text itself...All is self-indulgence of the reader/ biographer/ critic. Not to mention that it needs more cowbell.
The Ignition of a Controversy
You could say much the same thing about selfie-obsessed reviews that discuss "The Real Life" in terms of mirrors that ostensibly sit beneath the surface of the page (as far as I can recall, the word "mirror" only appears twice or three times in the novel, once as a metaphor [or simile] for narcissism - "they convey the impression that they are mirrored Narcissus-like in clear water").
In much the same way as Goodman errs, these (dearest of good) readers seem to believe that a mirror is a magic skeleton key that opens the lock of the door to every one of Nabokov's novels. They don't recognise that mirrors appear haphazardly in his fiction, and, when they do, they have different connotations. Nabokov's novels differ from each other as much as they might resemble each other.
The "mirror" in the poem "Pale Fire" (where it is more appropriate to use the word) is actually a windowpane, not a mirror, even if it's reflective of the azure sky (more than the butterfly).
Not afraid to ignite a controversy (even amongst his own readers), throughout "The Real Life", Nabokov is more concerned with the narcissism of readers or critics, who look into a book, only to find an image of themselves or of their own making (even if they're not content with the veracity of the image, believing, as they do, that they're more attractive than their image).
V writes of some women "who see everyday things merely as familiar mirrors of their own femininity". Presumably, men fall victim to the same folly.
It's a wonder that such readers, like their slapdash and misleading reviews, aren't "slain by the false azure of the windowpane" and turned into a "smudge of ashen fluff", the fate of the butterfly in the "Pale Fire" poem.
Hopeless Gropings Among the Author's Drawers
Nabokov would write elsewhere that readers themselves are [flawed] mirror images of the author:
These mirror images are subjective, misleading phantom images of the author. Readers make up or invent their own version or image of the novel they think the author was trying to write. Likewise, reviews are readers' attempts to see themselves in somebody else's work of the imagination. They are, in fact, poorly disguised acts of narcissism.
V describes them as "the leaden sluggishness of dream endeavour" and "hopeless gropings among dissolving things".
The novel's meaning and beauty dissolve under the onslaught of the self-obsessed reader.
The Darlings of Oblivion
Equally narcissistic are those nicholites, pontificators, copyists and acolytes whose practice is little more than to pronounce or declare postmodernist, lost and buried fiction "masterpieces" (the implicit promise of the pontificator being that they would know a masterpiece if they saw one), even if these fictions have done little to advance literature beyond the experiments of the modernists.
As Sebastian says in one of his books, "Little things like that are the darlings of oblivion..."
The Cult of Narcissism
This novel is an author's attack on the cult and culture of narcissism, whatever the variety - academic, intellectual, anti-intellectual, or social media.
Posting reviews or "doing your own research" online is theoretically capable of being something more than expressing or vindicating your own preconceived opinion on a public platform. Surely, it can reveal something more substantive than a hunger for likes.
You have to wonder whether these mediocre minds of the interweb actually think (in the sense V uses in relation to Goodman) or read anything other than what they have posted themselves.
Nabokov asserts and defends the primacy of (at least his own) fiction against such readerly and critical mediocrity.
In his eyes, just as we must beware of unreliable narrators, we must be wary of unreliable readers/ reviewers/ critics.
The Alliterative Life
Meanwhile, stylistically, Nabokov anticipates the famous alliteration on the first page of "Lolita".
In his memoir, "Lost Property" (the title of which is evocative enough), Sebastian Knight writes:
Nabokov would later substitute l's and t's for l's and v's, even if there was a t (for tongue) in "velvet".
Working on Our Knight Moves
I haven't searched out all of the chess references in this novel (apart from the obvious connotation of Sebastian's surname, as well as the name of his first love interest, Clare Bishop), but it's worth mentioning that "the signature under each [of Sebastian Knight's] poem(s) was a little black chess-knight drawn in ink."
A character who V calls "Black" holds a black knight chess piece in his hand during their conversation.
Playing Numbers
Nabokov often likes to play with numbers.
Sebastian writes in "Lost Property" that "The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition."
Later, he elaborates on the significance of the number one:
In "The Real Life", Nabokov postulates that, in love, we two are (both) one, and we are all one. We all constitute a singularity, narcissists excepted.
SOUNDTRACK:
(view spoiler)
The Continuum of the Rabbit Hole
Over the course of his writing career, Vladimir Nabokov would often return down the rabbit hole of his imagination to find styles, ideas, thoughts and expressions that he had used in past fiction or stored there for use in future fiction.
In his previous novel, "The Gift", a character encourages the narrator to write a "biographie romancée" (a biographical novel or fictitious biography) about a famous nineteenth century Russian writer.
Notwithstanding Nabokov's apparent scorn for the art form, "The Real Life" is just such a novel. It purports to be a biography of the narrator's half-brother, Sebastian (a novelist), but could, in fact, be a fiction about the narrator, or even Nabokov, himself (the narrator is known only as "V", "V. Sirin" being a nom de plume Nabokov used early in his career).
The Shaping of a Certain Lie
Despite his own diligent research (some of which required a private detective, in order to verify and "animate the past"), V warns us against unreliable narrators:
"Don't be too certain of learning the past from the lips of the present. Beware of the most honest broker. Remember that what you are told is really threefold: shaped by the teller, reshaped by the listener, concealed from both by the dead man of the tale.
"Who is speaking of Sebastian Knight?...And where is the third party? Rotting peacefully in the cemetery of St Damier. Laughing alive in five volumes [of his own writing]."
The Embedding of Nina Lecerf
Madame Nina Lecerf, a femme fatale who might have been Sebastian's last secret lover (albeit in a desperately unhappy relationship), and who proves adept at concealment, at least of her own identity and past, claims:
"I think writing a book about people you know is much more honest than making a hash of them and then presenting it as your own invention."
In response to V's pointed and persistent questioning, she declares:
"I am telling you what I know, and not what you'd like to know."
"I'll be disappointed in your book if it all ends in bed."
At times, Madame Lecerf seems to be the type of woman who would end up in bed in one of Graham Greene's entertainments. Indeed, V admits that he, too, considered the possibility of a tryst (even if Sebastian mightn't have).
The Narcissism of the Reader/ Biographer/ Critic
As "Pale Fire" would subsequently do with respect to Charles Kinbote, "The Real Life" aims to correct the biographer/ critic, Mr Goodman's, erroneous factuality and misguided interpretation of Sebastian's life and literary works:
"Mr Goodman's method is as simple as his philosophy. His sole object is to show 'poor Knight' as the product and victim of what he calls 'our time' -- 'Post-war unrest', 'Post-war Generation' are to Mr Goodman magic words opening every door. There is, however, a certain kind of 'open sesame', which seems less a charm than a skeleton-key...
"But he is quite wrong in thinking that he found something once the lock had been forced. Not that I wish to suggest that Mr Goodman thinks. He could not if he tried. His book concerns itself only with such ideas as have been shown (commercially) to attract mediocre minds...
"His slapdash and very misleading book...paints in a few ill-chosen sentences a ridiculously wrong picture of Sebastian Knight's childhood..."
"No wonder this solemn biographer is out of tune with his hero at every point in the story."
"[Though]...Mr. Goodman's book 'The Tragedy of Sebastian Knight' has enjoyed a very good Press...[he] knew all along that his book was rubbish."
What is missing from Goodman's study is any fidelity to the text itself...All is self-indulgence of the reader/ biographer/ critic. Not to mention that it needs more cowbell.
The Ignition of a Controversy
You could say much the same thing about selfie-obsessed reviews that discuss "The Real Life" in terms of mirrors that ostensibly sit beneath the surface of the page (as far as I can recall, the word "mirror" only appears twice or three times in the novel, once as a metaphor [or simile] for narcissism - "they convey the impression that they are mirrored Narcissus-like in clear water").
In much the same way as Goodman errs, these (dearest of good) readers seem to believe that a mirror is a magic skeleton key that opens the lock of the door to every one of Nabokov's novels. They don't recognise that mirrors appear haphazardly in his fiction, and, when they do, they have different connotations. Nabokov's novels differ from each other as much as they might resemble each other.
The "mirror" in the poem "Pale Fire" (where it is more appropriate to use the word) is actually a windowpane, not a mirror, even if it's reflective of the azure sky (more than the butterfly).
Not afraid to ignite a controversy (even amongst his own readers), throughout "The Real Life", Nabokov is more concerned with the narcissism of readers or critics, who look into a book, only to find an image of themselves or of their own making (even if they're not content with the veracity of the image, believing, as they do, that they're more attractive than their image).
V writes of some women "who see everyday things merely as familiar mirrors of their own femininity". Presumably, men fall victim to the same folly.
It's a wonder that such readers, like their slapdash and misleading reviews, aren't "slain by the false azure of the windowpane" and turned into a "smudge of ashen fluff", the fate of the butterfly in the "Pale Fire" poem.
Hopeless Gropings Among the Author's Drawers
Nabokov would write elsewhere that readers themselves are [flawed] mirror images of the author:
"For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist."
These mirror images are subjective, misleading phantom images of the author. Readers make up or invent their own version or image of the novel they think the author was trying to write. Likewise, reviews are readers' attempts to see themselves in somebody else's work of the imagination. They are, in fact, poorly disguised acts of narcissism.
V describes them as "the leaden sluggishness of dream endeavour" and "hopeless gropings among dissolving things".
The novel's meaning and beauty dissolve under the onslaught of the self-obsessed reader.
The Darlings of Oblivion
Equally narcissistic are those nicholites, pontificators, copyists and acolytes whose practice is little more than to pronounce or declare postmodernist, lost and buried fiction "masterpieces" (the implicit promise of the pontificator being that they would know a masterpiece if they saw one), even if these fictions have done little to advance literature beyond the experiments of the modernists.
As Sebastian says in one of his books, "Little things like that are the darlings of oblivion..."
The Cult of Narcissism
This novel is an author's attack on the cult and culture of narcissism, whatever the variety - academic, intellectual, anti-intellectual, or social media.
Posting reviews or "doing your own research" online is theoretically capable of being something more than expressing or vindicating your own preconceived opinion on a public platform. Surely, it can reveal something more substantive than a hunger for likes.
You have to wonder whether these mediocre minds of the interweb actually think (in the sense V uses in relation to Goodman) or read anything other than what they have posted themselves.
Nabokov asserts and defends the primacy of (at least his own) fiction against such readerly and critical mediocrity.
In his eyes, just as we must beware of unreliable narrators, we must be wary of unreliable readers/ reviewers/ critics.
The Alliterative Life
Meanwhile, stylistically, Nabokov anticipates the famous alliteration on the first page of "Lolita".
In his memoir, "Lost Property" (the title of which is evocative enough), Sebastian Knight writes:
"Life with you was lovely - and when I say lovely, I mean doves and lilies, and velvet, and that soft pink 'v' in the middle and the way your tongue curved up to the long, lingering 'l'.
"Our life together was alliterative, and when I think of all the little things which will die, now that we cannot share them, I feel as if we were dead too. And perhaps we are.
"You see, the greater our happiness was, the hazier its edges grew, as if its outlines were melting, and now it has dissolved altogether. I have not stopped loving you; but something is dead in me, and I cannot see you in the mist...
"This is all poetry. I am lying to you. Lily-livered. There can be nothing more cowardly than a poet beating about the bush. I think you have guessed how things stand: the damned formula of 'another woman'. I am desperately unhappy with her - here is one thing which is true."
Nabokov would later substitute l's and t's for l's and v's, even if there was a t (for tongue) in "velvet".
Working on Our Knight Moves
I haven't searched out all of the chess references in this novel (apart from the obvious connotation of Sebastian's surname, as well as the name of his first love interest, Clare Bishop), but it's worth mentioning that "the signature under each [of Sebastian Knight's] poem(s) was a little black chess-knight drawn in ink."
A character who V calls "Black" holds a black knight chess piece in his hand during their conversation.
Playing Numbers
Nabokov often likes to play with numbers.
Sebastian writes in "Lost Property" that "The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition."
Later, he elaborates on the significance of the number one:
"There is only one real number: One. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity."
In "The Real Life", Nabokov postulates that, in love, we two are (both) one, and we are all one. We all constitute a singularity, narcissists excepted.
SOUNDTRACK:
(view spoiler)
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Reading Progress
December 15, 2018
– Shelved
December 15, 2018
– Shelved as:
to-read
December 15, 2018
– Shelved as:
nabokov
March 23, 2022
–
Started Reading
March 27, 2022
– Shelved as:
read-2022
March 27, 2022
– Shelved as:
reviews
March 27, 2022
– Shelved as:
reviews-5-stars
March 27, 2022
–
Finished Reading
