WHO WAS VLADIMIR NABOKOV?nby Leon SteinmetznVladimir Nabokov (1899-1977) is not one of my mostnfavorite writers, but then my most favorite writers arenPope and Swift, Dante and Corneille, Goethe and Tolstoyn(not mentioning Theocritus, Vergil, and Marcus Aurelius)ncompared to whom any modern writer looks rather like anpeculiarly dressed dwarf; however, when Nabokov is accusednof some artistic or human sin, I always rush to defendnhim.nThe present essay was prompted, in part, by the newestnvolume on Nabokov by Andrew Field—VN: The Life andnArt of Vladimir Nabokov — the volume which generatednhostile reviews from people who consider Nabokov one ofnthe best writers who ever lived, and a favorable reactionnfrom those who think of him as but a juggler of exquisitenimages and intricate words, a snob with eccentric literaryntastes, and an unrepentant political conservative.nThe controversy renewed my interest in Nabokov. Inreread many of his works and tried to formulate my thoughtsnon who, after all, Vladimir Nabokov was.n* * *nIn 1923, a year after his father was assassinated, 24-yearoldnNabokov wrote these lines to his grieving and devastatednmother:n. . . We shall again see him, in an unexpected butncompletely natural paradise, in a country whereneverything is radiance and finesse. He will walkntoward us in our common bright eternity, slightlynraising his shoulders in the way that he used to do,nand with no surprise at all we shall kiss thenbirthmark on his hand. You must live in expectationnof this tender hour . . . and never give yourself overnto the temptation of despair. Everything will return.nIn the way that in a certain time the hands of thenclock come together again . . .nThe real personality of the author of Ada, Lolita, andnThe Gift, so cleverly concealed in his masterly craftednnovels, is laid bare in the lines of this letter.nNabokov occasionally gave the impression of beingnarrogant, aloof, snobbish. But this impression was utterlynmisleading. A great actor, a great inventor, and a greatnimitator, he liked playing games with our contemporarynworld. The world in which a jar of liquid labeled “Artist’snSweat” (probably real “artist’s” sweat) is bought and thennexhibited by a major art museum as a genuine art object; thenworld where music performed in a metropolitan symphonynhall might consist of the screech of a grand piano beingnhauled across the stage and the heavy breathing of thenworkers pushing it; the world in which some incomprehensible,nrambling lines conceived under the cloud of hashish arenLeon Steinmetz’s latest contribution to Chronicles wasn”Thoughts on Mikhail Bulgakov” in our January ’88nissue. His essays have appeared in Commentary andnNational Review. He teaches creative writing at Harvard.noften hailed as a great poetic discovery.nElaborately careful not to reveal himself to this world’sncynical sneer, Nabokov played with it the only games itncould understand and admire — clever, contrived, and glitteringncold. This is why the classical naturalness, refinednsimplicity, and profound religious conviction of his letternwould so rarely find their way onto the pages of his novels.nIn his literary tastes Nabokov was a classicist—preferringnTolstoy over Dostoevsky or Turgenev over Maupassant—nwhile as a writer he was, obviously, a modernist. It wasnbecause (paradoxical as it may sound) his attitude towardnliterature was much more serious and profound than towardnhis own writing. Of course he enjoyed writing tremendously,nand, of course, it was the center of his life, but still,nwriting for him was a game, a puzzle, a chess problem; andnhe played with it as, in a way, a child would play with annnnAPRIL 19881 17n