"Laughter in the Dark" Part II: Coincidence & Fiction

' "A certain man," said Rex, as he turned round the corner with Margot, "once lost a diamond cuff-link in the wide blue sea, and twenty years later, on the exact day, a Friday apparently, he was eating a large fish - but there was no diamond inside. That's what I like about coincidence" ' (Nabokov, 135).

“What should be established, I think, is an artistic harmonious balance between the reader’s mind and the author’s mind. We ought to remain a little aloof and take pleasure in this aloofness while at the same time we keenly enjoy—passionately enjoy, enjoy with tears and shivers—the inner weave of a given masterpiece” (Nabokov, 3).

This morning, while struggling with the structure of this post, I read Nabokov’s essay ‘Good Readers and Good Writers’ in an attempt to give my ideas some shape. While the former quote is from the novel, the latter quote is from this essay, which provides a wonderful little introduction to some of Nabokov’s lectures on literature. I will read those lectures eventually, but for now I will refer to them only to supplement my discussions on the novels, as my intents and purposes primarily concern Nabokov the writer.

With regards to the second quote, I think that it contains an interesting proposition. To me, being 'in harmony with the author's mind' means being aware of the nature of the work as an artistic construct (as the author would) and being sensitive to the means by which the author structures his work - such as style, literary devices, etc. To assume this analytical mindset takes a degree of 'aloofness,' or removal from the story. In casual reading, so much focus is placed on becoming completely engrossed in a novel – becoming utterly lost in the plot and identifying with characters (something Nabokov hates) – that the ‘aloofness’ often escapes us until the end, when the final page is turned and we proclaim, satiated, “That was a GOOD BOOK.” Even then, we’re not talking about an exercise in criticism.

In fairness, I think that different books (and I'm talking about recreational reading) demand different degrees of the aloofness/enjoyment balance, which is usually a choice made by both the author and the reader. For example, I spent the weekend charging through a healthy dose of sensationalist fiction – Stieg Larsson’s “The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo.” Was I critically distancing myself as I attempted to achieve a harmonious balance between the author’s mind and mine? Hell no. I will be the first to admit that I was breathlessly riding the wave of storytelling, which I believe to be, at times, a valid pleasure unto itself. Of course, it depends on the book as well.

The scholar, the ‘good reader,’ has cultivated aloofness, allowing him to extract and appreciate the unique patterns discovered by his practiced awareness. This is one of the things I hope to learn as I study literature – more than just appreciating the story, I must learn to critically appreciate the creation of the story. It’s a challenge to maintain that sort of awareness (hence the dose of sensationalist fiction in between trips into the Nabokovian universe. ‘Twas a necessary holiday.)

However, if the reader's degree of ‘aloofness,’ which I equate with achieving a mental balance with the author, is usually regarded as choices of both parties, it would seem that Nabokov leaves you no choice. He asserts his desire for a harmonious balance between your mind and his, and challenges you to achieve it. In ‘Laughter,’ he accomplishes this by using the device of coincidence.

"It amused him immensely to see life made to look silly, as it slid helplessly into caricature … He loved to fool people, and the less trouble the process entailed, the more the joke pleased him. And at the same time this dangerous man was, with pencil in hand, a very fine artist indeed" (Nabokov, 143).

In this passage the author describes Rex, but I think the author is also describing himself.

Strategically placed coincidence is one of the many things that characterize literature as fiction. Nabokov uses coincidence like a mother uses a sudden change in tone of voice. Or like a slightly sadistic policeman uses a taser. Or like a mother suddenly uses a taser (!) What I think Nabokov is doing is issuing an implicit challenge to the reader. By injecting his plotline with coincidence, Nabokov asserts, “This is art. Life does not happen like this. I created this; consider it. Appreciate it.” And, under his breath, “Keep on your toes, dear reader; I’m watching you.”

In Nabokov’s true words, rather than my amused speculations, this translates into: “Literature is invention. Fiction is fiction … Every great writer is a great deceiver …" (Nabokov, 4). The aloof reader realizes this, and maintains a degree of distance from the text that allows him to appreciate it as a work of art, a work of deception, and a world of creation that is ready to be studied in detail in order to be best understood.

I believe that the most painfully ironic coincidence in the novel occurs when Albert Albinus loses his eyesight. Prior to the car accident that renders him literally blind, there are so many things to which he is completely oblivious, such as Margot’s falsified affections in order to obtain his fortune, Rex’s falsified collaborations in order to obtain Margot, and most importantly, the affair that Margot and Rex are carrying on behind his back. Then Albinus loses his eyesight.

Albinus is also an art critic. His greatest loss is that of his ability to regard his beloved works of art.

But the kicker is this: thought it is a coincidence that Albinus, scholar and lover of art, has lost his sight, the discomfiting irony is that not much about his situation has really changed. It is mentioned on numerous occasions that Albinus was never a particularly good art critic, even lacking the ability to differentiate original pieces from fakes. With regards to Margot and Rex, it takes him the entire novel (and a disproportionate amount of money) to discover their true natures. Until that point, Margot and Rex continue their affair right before his sightless eyes.

Other coincidences? The manner in which Albinus discovers Margot’s infidelity (through an old writer acquaintance whose novels Albinus loves to laud during parties, whom Albinus eventually runs into while on holiday and finds himself loath to be in the company of, so he eventually breaks away from, only to discover that this misanthropic writer is the only person who can tell him the truth about Margot and Rex) …

That’s like … coincidence tennis. Leaves your head spinning.

Ultimately, I think that the novel’s coincidences help to create the artistic balance between the author and reader’s mind by self-consciously drawing attention to the novel’s status as fiction. The recognition that "This couldn't possibly happen!" reminds the reader that this is a piece of art that is to be appreciated for its construction as well as the pleasure it brings.

So, as a potential writer, I suppose the question I have to ask myself is this: If I am to write fiction, how much do I want to take this into account? Nabokov provides some food for thought:

“The art of writing is a very futile business if it does not imply first of all the art of seeing the world as the potentiality of fiction” (Nabokov, 1).

Interestingly, this is something that I have considered before – finding the ‘poetry’ of daily life in the recognition of unique events. I think that this is a similar idea to seeing the world as the ‘potentiality of fiction.’ You have to be aware of what the world can do, an imaginative sort of vision that goes beyond the scope of what the world actually does. My solution? Keep a journal – though, as the first page of ‘Sebastian Knight’ warns against, not a simple ‘documentation of events,’ for that is a ‘poor method of self-preservation.’ (I don’t have the book with me at the moment, but those words stuck.) Secondly:

“There are three points of view from which a writer can be considered: he may be considered as a storyteller, as a teacher, and as an enchanter. A major writer combines these three—storyteller, teacher, enchanter—but it is the enchanter in him that predominates and makes him a major writer” (Nabokov, 4).

I don’t yet know which of these will predominate in me. I want my potential works to be worlds of artistic merit as well as worlds of enjoyment. I want the reader to be able to choose the degree to which they participate in my game – but I definitely aspire to create a moderately complex game with a dash of the Nabokovian challenge to ‘play hard.’

I had never thought about the author’s role in determining the degree to which the reader submerged himself in the ‘game’ of the novel before; I had considered it more of an arbitrary thing. So there – I learned something.

Phew. In all honesty, this post was incredibly difficult to write, and took me the better part of four hours to compose. Next up is ‘Sebastian Knight,’ which I have tentatively begun and which I have already recognized won’t be particularly straightforward to write about either. I suppose that none of the novels will. However, it is rewarding, as always, to read literature, and is rewarding in a newer way to force myself to structure my ideas like this. In addition to potentially teaching me how to write, this process is also teaching me how to read. Ultimately, this quote from Nabokov makes the entire effort worth it:

“Up a trackless slope climbs the master artist, and at the top, on a windy ridge, whom do you think he meets? The panting and happy reader, and there they spontaneously embrace and are linked forever if the book lasts forever” (Nabokov, 2).

Given that I have set out to conquer as much of his canon as possible, I don’t think that two novels qualify me as having reached the top of the slope just yet. However, I’m glad that Nabokov has more or less confirmed what I dare to hope will meet me when I eventually get there.

Works Cited

Nabokov, Vladimir. "Good Readers and Good Writers." Lectures on Literature. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1980.

Nabokov, Vladimir. Laughter in the Dark. New York: Vintage, 1989

Novel #1 - "Laughter in the Dark" Part I: The Artist vs. The Critic

About two days ago, I had a startling moment of lucidity in which I realized the dubiousness of what it is that I am trying to accomplish. Before I discuss the first novel, I merely wish to tip a tentative hat to this dark cloud of doubt, as an essay’s argument nods to those points that threaten to overthrow its meticulously constructed thesis in order to lessen the sting of their blows. (Circumlocutory, elaborate verbosity … clearly, someone’s been reading Nabokov.)

I realized that I am trying to squeeze lemon juice from oranges, as it were. I am attempting to extract something from Nabokov's novels that, unlike most trails worthy of “scholarly” pursuits, was never woven into the text to lay dormant in anticipation of being unearthed by some raving bookworm.

In short, I fully realize that Nabokov did not write his novels to teach others how to write.

But – and here is the hesitation that drives the entire body of what could otherwise be deemed a trivial pursuit – but nor is literature explicitly intended to be a lesson in morality, or a guide for living your best life, or a method of escapism. Just like music is not written to ease the struggle of stationary cardio, or help you get over the death of your fish, or clog up a rapidly evolving industry with useless garbage (I think, but that’s another blog altogether…)

And yet … … …

Consider my efforts justified.

So. 'Laughter in the Dark.' Published in 1938, 'Laughter' marked Nabokov’s sixth novel, originally written in Russian and later translated into English. Overall, I’d call it a painfully ironic novel that is merciless in its structural concision despite the absurdity of events. You laugh, and you feel like a terrible human being. In terms of authorship, that’s power.

I positively adored it.

Possessing many parallels to 'Lolita,' 'Laughter in the Dark' involves a middle-aged man (Albert Albinus, a respected art critic) who is drawn to a much younger woman (Margot Peters), only to be eventually usurped by another man (Axel Rex.) In ‘Lolita,’ the infamous Humbert Humbert, the ‘nymphet’ Dolores Haze, and the playwright Clare Quilty form a similar triad.

The similarities continue with the relationships between the three characters. Albinus’ attraction to Margot is self-explanatory – the notable difference being that Margot is eighteen when their attraction develops, thus sidestepping so much of the hostility with which 'Lolita' was met. What was of greater interest to me was the relationship between Albinus and Rex, which bore much in common with the antipathy between Humbert and Quilty. Both Humbert and Albinus are scholars – admittedly, scholars who are passionate about art – but remain critics rather than creators. On the opposing side, both Quilty and Rex are makers of art – Quilty a playwright, and Rex a cartoonist. Oddly enough, the artist in both cases dupes the scholar.

Hmm – critic vs. artist … Tajja vs. Nabokov … and the artist always wins. You can imagine how this implicit suggestion made me feel. (Ha!)

But in all seriousness, I thought it a very interesting dichotomy. It mirrored a division that I have often felt in myself – the desire to critique versus create art. It is my desire to have the two coexist peacefully in my life (the study of English, and the writing of music, poetry, and eventually prose), but I have often had the feeling that I am home to two different people, Jekyll-and-Hyde style. Academic Tajja rolls her eyes when Artistic Tajja has a melody running around in her head while Academic Tajja is trying to write an essay. But don’t roll your eyes too obviously, Academic Tajja – apparently, Artistic Tajja can kick your ass.

It reminded me of a quote from 'Lolita': “And now take down the following important remark: the artist in me has been given the upper hand over the gentleman” (Nabokov, 71).

Of this quote, I wrote in an essay: “… Humbert produces the arresting image of a duality within himself – one half a resigned moralist, and the other a passionate artist who has won the fistfight over his craving to experience the magic of nymphets” (Isen, 2009).

(Yessir. I just cited myself.)

The artist is dastardly, the artist is obscene. The artist throws open the windows and prowls around stark naked, tickling the lips of blind men with stalks of grass simply because he can. (Nabokov’s image, not mine.) The critic is relegated to the role of ‘resigned moralist,’ adhering to conventions of form and tradition, while the artist is unbound by such trifling limits. The artist is transcendent, operating beyond the rules. And as such, the artist always wins the fistfight. (Suddenly, the “put-‘em-up” images of Nabokov and myself along the sides of this page are starting to seem much more literally relevant.)

Art is reality’s cookie-jar-swiping younger brother, who gets away with all sorts of mischief that reality could never get away with. Or try this: art is dowdy reality’s sexy friend who looks absolutely stunning in the most outlandish of regalia that reality couldn’t pull off even on her best of days.

Fiona Apple never said to her ex-boyfriend, “You say love is a hell you cannot bear/and I say give me mine back and then go there, for all I care,” but fashion the barb into a song, and when he hears it blaring from the television while cavorting with a new flame, it’ll hit him where it hurts. Suddenly cavorting doesn’t seem so appealing any more. True story.

Bringing the discussion full circle, it seems that I am forging a rare path in the artist/critic 'duality.' I am attempting to use the critic's role to understand the intricacies of the role of the artist, which will hopefully allow me to assume that position one day.

I don't want to be the blind man brushing away the stalk of grass ... I want to be the naked man tormenting him. And I mean that in the most figurative sense.

I have so much more to say, but I think this is a nice point at which to close (visualize preceding image.) No, really, I think I’ll divide my discussion on 'Laughter' into two separate posts, namely because what I've written forms a fairly cohesive whole, and the rest of what I wish to discuss is also quite distinct and deserves its own title. So, stay tuned for “ 'Laughter in the Dark' Part II: Coincidence & Fiction,” in which I discuss the primary literary instruction which I implicitly received from this novel, as well as some bits about characters and title. In the meantime, I shall be slowly delving into the next novel ('The Real Life of Sebastian Knight') while sipping tea and pondering how to articulate exactly what it is I learned from this fantastic little book.

Swatting away that stalk of grass.

This was the first official post. Please be gentle.

Works Cited

Isen, Tajja. "Euphemism and Indirection in Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita." November 20, 2009.

Nabokov, Vladimir. Lolita. New York: Vintage, 1997.

Why Nabokov?

Well, it's a bit of a long story. And it really has no logical progression from the beginning up until this point, where I stand on the brink of what is sure to be a challenging literary undertaking. It involves two inner monologues - which, for personification's sake, we will call conversations. Perhaps a Freudian approach, ironically enough, will allow for the most sensible explanation of the first. It begins where all things begin - with the id, naturally.

"I want to write fiction," the id proclaimed naively, and probably without giving the matter much thought.

The superego, as it is wont to do, combated the id's rash desire with a mocking reprimand. "In order to do so, you must actually KNOW something about fiction, and when it comes to formal conventions ... you don't know jack."

The ego, seeing that the id was hurt, automatically stepped up to mediate: "Well, why don't you learn about fiction, sweetie?"

And just like that, the seed was planted.

Suspend that conversation in your mind for a moment, and consider the second exchange. This was a fully conscious (as opposed to subconscious) conversation that I had with myself (hands down, the best way to amuse yourself on public transportation, also performing the extra function of making people think you're crazy if you take the extra leap and have the conversation aloud. In case you're wondering, I didn't.) This was just last week.

I said, "Self, why do you love books? To what end do you spend your time dragging your eyeballs across pages of words and why, having no apparent purpose, does this pastime bring you such joy?"

And my self said, "Books are art. Art is beautiful. You immerse yourself in art to try and capture some of its beauty to carry around in your own little life."

I replied, "Hmm ... that reminds me of something I heard in an English lecture this year."

We had been studying Vladimir Nabokov's 'Lolita,' and my musings offered a memory of a quote of Nabokov's that the professor had shared with us: "Art should have no (moral) purpose other than to create a state of aesthetic bliss." (These are probably not the exact words, so I'll content myself with a 'citation needed.')

Sounds delicious, no?

At around the same time, I was finishing up 'The Witches of Eastwick' by the lovely John Updike. Updike's winding, lyrical prose instantly reminded me of another author - that's right, Vladimir Nabokov. (Highly recommend the novel, by the way - it's like Desperate Housewives as written by Nabokov. Sorry, VN.) Flipping through my twice-read copy of 'Lolita' to compare their prose stylings, I realized that the back of 'Lolita' actually bore a quote by Updike, an acclaimed author and literary critic himself, who has written on Nabokov. Allow me to share his words with you:

"Nabokov writes prose the only way it should be written, that is, ecstatically." I discovered today that this quote is on the back of every single published edition of all of Nabokov's works.

Somehow, my mind synthesized the concepts of needing to learn about fiction, wanting to incorporate the beauty of art into my life, and Nabokov's aesthetic bliss and ecstatic prose, and decided that in order to obtain a general idea of the conventions of fiction, I must read my merry way through the works of Vladimir Nabokov.

WELL.

To date, the only Nabokov I've read is 'Lolita.' It is one of my favourite novels, bringing me joy when I first read it of my own volition in the summer after grade eleven, and again when I read it for my literature class this past year, writing an essay on Nabokov's use of euphemism and indirection in the novel's sexual descriptions, of which I was very proud (run-on sentence, I know, sorry, I'm excited.)

I had often put off attempting his other works because of the complexity of his prose and ideas, reassuring myself that I would revisit his catalogue when I was deeper into the study of literature, and therefore better equipped. But this desire came over me with such passionate conviction that I simply couldn't refuse or refute it. Even the name of the undertaking arrived without me really having to think about it. Add to that the encouragement of my mother to 1) attempt it, and 2) BLOG about it, and I was set. ("It's like Julie and Julia!" Thanks mom!)

And thus, The Nabokov Project was born.

Vladimir Nabokov - artist, critic, scholar, lepidopterist (collector of butterflies), lecturer (who wrote notoriously difficult English exams) - shall be my teacher. Through his implicit instruction, I shall form a rough understanding of the art of fiction. I shall be using this blog to describe each of his novels - what I think of them, yes, but more importantly what I take from them as it is relevant to the writing of literature. This is not at all meant to be a contribution to the field of scholarship (but if it ends up being one, no complaints!!) but is rather an informal medium for me to express my thoughts, feelings and ideas about a subject for which I have an overwhelming passion - literature.

So, without further ado (yes, that was all preamble, welcome to my brain) I'd like to share the books with which I have chosen to begin the Nabokov Project. They are all somewhat unconventional choices, as I have decided not to read through his works chronologically. Here they are, in the order in which I will read them, complete with slight summary and my own rationale for choosing them:

1) Laughter in the Dark - I wanted to read something from earlier in Nabokov's career, and was attracted to this novel's plot and the sinister title. Dealing with a middle-aged man/younger woman relationship, it inevitably reminded me of 'Lolita.' Perhaps that's a fairly unsubstantial reason to pick it up, but the pull it exerted upon me was strong nonetheless. Also, the title image is so evocative as to be irresistible. (Take a moment, close your eyes, and imagine someone laughing in the dark: intriguing.)

2) The Real Life of Sebastian Knight - The first of Nabokov's novels in English, written about ..." the mysterious life of a famous writer." Nabokov wrote about half of his novels in Russian (originally), but composed the latter half of his catalogue in English. No, English is not Nabokov's first language, but he has a better grasp of it than most native English-speakers. I want to see if I can discern stylistic or thematic differences between those novels written in English and those originally written in Russian. Also, the back describes it as "...a perversely magical literary detective story - subtle, intricate, leading to a tantalizing climax..." How could I refuse?

3) Despair - Like 'Laughter,' this was originally written in Russian. Chronologically, it follows 'Laughter,' so it will also give me a sense of Nabokov's stylings closer to the beginning of his career. I'm not reaching all the way back to the beginning yet - a lot of his earlier work is very grounded in Russian politics and culture, about which I'd like to be slightly better educated in order to approach the work in some context. 'Despair' is about a man who stages his own murder in order to be able to live a peaceful, uninterrupted life - something I'm sure we've all considered, though possibly not to that extreme - but then again, that's what literature is for - taking us beyond the realms of our ordinary experience.

So there you have it. The beginnings of The Nabokov Project. I'm not yet sure if I have resolved to cover all of his works - I'm keeping this open-ended. I still have a book list some one hundred titles long, not including the approximate twenty written by my 'teacher.' For now, I'm happy to see where this takes me and what it teaches me.

And really, who better to teach me than Vladimir Nabokov?