the difficult craft to which he had committednhimself, he began to look at languagenin the wrong way. Rather thannseeing it for what it is, a means, he begannto regard it as an end in itself—^not an unusualnreaction of people who, for whatevernreason, come to lose faith in thenreal, people who make a vocation out ofndoubting. That was one problem. Another,nscarcely less serious one, was hisnsuccumbing to the most blatant kind ofndidacticism. In his later “plays” Albeenhas distanced himself from drama and isnwriting what amount to heavy-handedntracts. Might not Albee have been betternoff as a psychologist or a counselor? Ornperhaps as a philosopher of the stripe ofncertain analytic types. He would havenbeen right at home among those daringnintellects whose notion of doing philosophynis to sit around wondering if it isnpossible to do philosophy.nThere are some observers who considernAlbee profound. Byway of demonstrationnthey point to some of the morenopaque passages he has written—^not tonexplicate those passages in any intelligiblenway, mind you, but simply to standnawestruck and mute before them. In ansense, their reaction is appropriate, fornthe inexplicable speaks for itself. Butnhow can they determine Albee to be profoundnwhen they, apparently, cannot determinen^lTat he is talking about? It’s easynto be perceived as deep if one uses languagenas a barrier rather than a bridge. Ifnthe river of reality between two minds isnimpassable, our imagination can allownus, sometimes completely without warrant,nto suppose that what is found onnthe opposite bank is important and valuable.nThe ultimate test of the worth ofnany writer is twofold: (1) Does he speaknin order to be understood? (2) Does henspeak the truth? Because Albee does notnalways qualify with respect to the firstnissue, it is difl&cult to advance an opinionnon the second.nVladimir Nabokov was a faithfulnguardian of the sacred fire. He was angenius of language, indicated, amongnother things, by the feet that he acceptedn32inChronicles of Culturenlanguage on its own terms. The artist ofnlanguage is someone who is fully cognizantnof the basic truth that human beingsnare bom into language, and he acceptsnthe truth with equanimity. Nabokovnnever felt himself under compulsion toninvent that which was already in his possession,nand as a gift.nDuring the academic year 1950-51nNabokov filled in for an absent regularnand taught the Humanities 2 course atnHarvard, part of the General Educationnrequirement there. Cervantes’s DonnQuixote was on the syllabus for thatncourse; by way of preparing himself tondiscuss the novel, Nabokov wrote a seriesnof formal lectures, made some interestingndiagrams and sketches, and, most impressively,ncomposed detailed chapterby-chapternnotes on the entire work.nThe material has been collected andnedited by Fredson Bowers.nThe maimer in which Nabokov approachednthis project is an edifying objectnlesson for all who are in the businessnof teaching and criticizing literature.nWhat too many would-be critics forgetnas they launch out into the deeps of explicationnand analysis is the most importantnprerequisite for the process: a thoroughnknowledge of the text. It’s a safenbet that when Nabokov took the podiumnto talk about Don Quixote there wasnvery little anyone could tell him aboutnthe work he didn’t know. Obviously onencannot talk intelligently about what onendoesn’t know, yet it is amazing how manynbold people are willing to hold forth onnthe subject of literature with only thenscantiest knowledge of what they arentalking about, with the predictable resultnthat many unintelligent things arenconstantly being said about literature.nWhat underpins Nabokov’s meticulous,nthorough approach to Don Quixote isnthe foundation of all good criticism, appreciation.nAt first blush, appreciationnseems not all that weighty a matter, butnin fact it is the sine qua non, for withoutna basic respect for the work before himnand a concession to the work’s essentialnseriousness (the work should be assumedninnocent in this respect until provennnnguilty), the critic, good intentions notwithstanding,nis not going to come upnwith a worthwhile critical response.nlo nurture a first-line appreciationnof and respect for a given work of literaturendoes not presuppose a favorable responsento it. It does guarantee that thenresponse will be honest, considered,nand based on criteria to which all havenaccess. Ideally, criticism is not unlike anscientific endeavor in the sense that itsnconclusions are not wtonsical but basednon solid evidence—^the text. There is nondenying the value of Nabokov’s conclusionsnin response to Don Quixote. FornGuy Davenport those conclusions constitutennot only a new reading of the worknbut “an event in modem criticism.”nNabokov does not allow himself to benstunned into disingenuous responses bynreason of the feet that he’s dealing with an”classic.” So he avoids the tiresome tacknof simply elaborating on the conventionalnresponses to the work. He will grant thatnDon Quixote rates consideration as anlandmark, in that it stands as effectivelynthe opening work in the tradition of thenEuropean novel. Too, he grants the pricelessnessnof the work because it gavenbirth to one of the great characters ofnmodern literature. He is not at all impressed,nhowever, by the stmcture ofnthe novel; in fact, noting its loosenessnand at times almost haphazard quality,nhe quite reflises to go along with the ideanthat it is one of the great novels of worldnliterature. But his most pointed criticismnhas to do with what he frankly callsnthe “brutality of the book.” From thenviewpoint of the book’s cruelty, whichnhe discusses in pointed fashion, it is fornhim “one of the most bitter and barbarousnbooks ever penned.” Don Quixote isnsimply not fiinny, and of Sancho Panzanthe same can be said but more emphatically.nNabokov seems to imply that ifnconsciences can be cormpt so too cannsenses of humor, and anyone who wouldnconsider to be fiinny the pathetic conditionnof Don Quixote, and the systematicncmelty to which he is subjected in thenvarious episodes of the tale, would haven