DON’T READ VLADIMIR NABAKOV ON PLANES.
To read Nabakov, you should be somewhere where you can light a candle and pour a glass of wine. Or scotch. And you should be well rested – perhaps with a blanket pulled over your lap for warmth. The best I could do was the business class section of a United flight from Orlando to Chicago. I kept falling asleep because I didn’t sleep last night so then I had to finish it on the flight from Chicago to Edmonton (oh hey did I mention I’m home?), because let’s be real, I was using that layover to explore O’Hare. There’s a chocolate store in Terminal 3 that sells bacon chocolate bars. You’re welcome.
I had no idea what was going on in this book. None. Not a goddamned clue. It’s half literary revue, half novel, part long-form poem… and entirely confusing until you get to the end and suddenly everything falls into place perfectly and you are reminded that Vladimir Nabakov was a better writer than you deserve to read, so start giving him some respect, Dorothy, and stop reading him on planes.
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