Glory, Vladimir Nabokov



Glory. That’s how I hope I feel by the end of the day. I hope there’s confetti, even though Matthew keeps telling me he learned his lesson and there will never be confetti again. Indulge me, dear one. I read a lot of books this month.

I’ve read enough Nabokov that he’s edging into “good ol’ pal” territory, where I read something new of his and it already seems familiar. I basically know these characters, Martin Edelweiss and Sofia who refuses to marry him. They’re naive and lovely, same as many characters he wrote. Martin is a pleasant chap, but largely talentless, so you aren’t too heartbroken by Sofia’s repeated rejections. It’s easy to stay on the margins and simply enjoy the prose.

I’m impressed that this is a translation. The book of translated Rilke poems I read a couple days ago lost something in the translation, but I don’t believe this has. It’s full of glimmering Nabokovian turns of phrase and his trademark blurring of the senses.

That’s all, for now. More to read. Vonnegut’s up next. I’m going to go get a coffee.

Books read: 38


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