"Despair" Part II: On Doubles, Dostoevsky, and the Defense of Art

"I maintain that in the planning and execution of the whole thing the limit of skill was attained; that its perfect finish was, in a sense, inevitable; that all came together, regardless of my will, by means of creative intuition. And so, in order to obtain recognition, to justify and save the offspring of my brain, to explain to the world all the depth of my masterpiece, did I devise the writing of the present tale" (Nabokov, 194-195)

Thus speaks Hermann, towards the end of his sordid confession. A brief retelling: Hermann discovers a homeless man to whom he perceives himself to bear an uncanny resemblance. In order to be able to escape his own mundane life, with which he has grown bored, Hermann cons his double (Felix) into dressing in Hermann's clothes, carrying Hermann's identification, and on all accounts, pretending to be Hermann himself. At which point Hermann shoots him and abandons him, intending to begin a peaceful life anew, his old identity having been eliminated at the time of his staged 'murder.'

But as I'm learning, in Nabokov, there is always a catch. Always a fly in the ointment, always a flaw in the plan, which forces the reader to regard the scene from a different angle and upends all preconceived notions (especially where the double is concerned, as I learned from Lolita and Sebastian Knight - Nabokov seems to like manipulating the idea of 'the double'). In Despair, it is revealed that we have been relying too heavily on the tirades of a delusional murderer when we discover the following:

Felix doesn't look like Hermann at all.

The authorities instantly see through Hermann's poorly-disguised crime. There is absolutely no doubt that the man is not Hermann, and the guilty party is indeed Hermann himself. Our discovery of the lack of resemblance is mitigated through Hermann, which means that it's still quite subjective, but it reveals what it is meant to reveal - Hermann is unreliable, to the highest degree. Here's what he says on the subject of the discovery of his crime:

"In getting into their heads that it was not my corpse, they behaved just as a literary critic does, who at the mere sight of a book by an author he does not favor, makes up his mind that the book is worthless and thence proceeds to build whatever he wants to build, on the basis of that first gratuitous assumption" (190-191).

Zero possibility of acknowledging for a second that he might possibly be wrong. The man is delusional.

I suppose now would be an appropriate time to say that I enjoyed the second half of the novel. Not nearly as much as I enjoyed Laughter, and nowhere near as much as I adored Sebastian Knight, but certainly more than I enjoyed the first half of this novel. Hermann's absurd predicament amused me. His is not unlike the predicament of Dostoevsky's Raskolnikov - a character with whom Hermann repeatedly draws some (comically derisive) parallels. When searching for a title for his confession, Hermann contemplates calling his book "Crime and Pun." He refers to Dostoevsky's novel as "Crime and Slime," and with what seems to be equal parts affection and condemnation, nicknames the author 'Dusty.'

More explicitly, he refers to himself as being "like Raskolnikov" before instantly changing his mind and revoking the comparison. According to Hermann, what differentiates his crime from those of other criminals, and what differentiates his written work from the works of Dostoevsky and Conan Doyle (another comparison of Hermann's) is the following:

"The mistake of my innumerable forerunners consisted of their laying principal stress upon the act itself and in their attaching more importance to a subsequent removal of all traces, than to the most natural way of leading up to that same act which is really but a link in the chain, one detail, one line in the book, and must be logically derived from all previous matter; such being the nature of every art" (122)

For, you see:

"If the deed is planned and performed correctly, then the force of creative art is such, that were the criminal to give himself up on the very next morning, none would believe him, the invention of art containing far more intrinsical truth than life's reality" (Nabokov, 122).

Herein lies the nature of Hermann's rationalization.

The invention of art containing a far more intrinsical truth than life's reality... Invention containing more truth than reality. Art being more truthful than life. Art being more than life. In one of my first posts, I compared art to a cookie-jar-emptying younger sibling, who accomplishes the impossible while reality is left to holler "MOOOO-OOOOOOM!!" and point in exasperation to the trail of crumbs across the kitchen. I think it's a similar idea: art is capable of reaching into different realms of experience. Whether that is a greater truth or an impossible truth varies, I suppose.

With my own forays into creating art, I find that the truth can be more effectively reached by using art as a means of distillation. When I write a song, the process becomes about refining the subject - be it an emotion, occurrence, idea - down to its purest, most simplistic form. Which is not to say my songs don't encompass complex ideas, but when they do, I make sure there are no competing ideas. (I save that for real life). But art, she gets the delicate treatment.

For Hermann, the intrinsical truths of art seem to deal with reaching people; touching them with his artistic creation and having it appreciated. He longs for "... the moment of an artist's triumph; of pride, deliverance, bliss ..." (183) and hopes to accomplish this through the sharing of his "intrinsical truth." Which is all entirely feasible within the perimeters of art, and could all go off without a hitch in nearly any artistic circumstance, except for one thing...

Hermann killed someone.

Although he is thoroughly convinced that his crime is a work of art, there is a leap of logic in there that doesn't hold. He is so blinded by his own supposed artistic genius that he misses it completely: "Although in my soul of souls I had no qualms about the perfection of my work ... I longed, to the point of pain, for that masterpiece of mine ... to be appreciated by men, or in other words, for the deception - and every work of art is a deception - to act successfully ..." (178).

In Nabokov, it would seem that the artist always wins. As Hermann's 'work of art' ultimately fails, and he is caught, it would seem to point to the fact that Hermann is not an artist. He is right in assuming that works of art are deceptions, but in his particular case, the defense of art is insufficient.

Whereas Humbert knows he is deceiving us, Hermann genuinely doesn't know the right answer. Humbert uses art as a defense while he self-deprecates, Hermann uses it as full justification that exonerates him from all culpability. Humbert condemns himself; Hermann does not.

I don't think so, Hermann.

Fin.

I won't be starting Invitation to a Beheading for several days (too many other books, as usual!!), so I expect to have the next post up within a week and a half or so, containing my first impressions of that novel.

Until then. Thanks for reading.

Works Cited

Nabokov, Vladimir. Despair. New York: Vintage, 1989.

Novel #3 - "Despair" Part I: Inferiority

Before we Despair, I must express how incredible I found Alias Grace.

....

It was incredible.

So incredible, in fact, that I feel the rest of her titles tugging relentlessly on the hem of my dress - "Read us, read us!" - but can do nothing but gesture helplessly to my growing stack of unread books. Soon.

But now ... it is time to rev this stalled vehicle and breathe life into The Nabokov Project once again. Before which, I must address this point: any future pauses (and I'm sure there will be several) can all be attributed to the fact that I am ... reading. Reading other books, yes, but reading nonetheless. Establishing an exclusive relationship with a single author is difficult in any case. Add to that my inability to resist the mere idea of a new book, and the challenge of staying on the single-author-track is magnified. So yes, this is slow going ... but it is, indeed, going.

Despair. Written directly after Laughter in the Dark, the novel was published in 1935. However, Nabokov extensively revised it in 1965, refining the English translation and adding a previously absent passage. The novel purports to relate the story of a man, Hermann, who attempts to "undertake the perfect crime: his own murder."

I am a little over halfway through the novel, and I haven't quite reached the part where he attempts to undertake this contradictory-sounding project. I regret to say that I'm not enjoying it as much as I have the others that I've read thus far.

Why? Well - I hesitate to attribute my lack of warm, fuzzy feelings for the novel to my lack of warm, fuzzy feelings for Hermann, the narrator/protagonist, because I don't think you're supposed to like him.

Hermann. Hermann is bored. Hermann is "in the chocolate business." Hermann is an educated, hypochondriacal pathological liar with a superiority complex. Not exactly the sort of description that induces warm, fuzzy feelings flowing in the direction of reader to character. However, it is a description which bears interesting parallels to the nature of Nabokov's most notorious narrator. (Ah, adoration of alliteration!)

But despite Humbert's transgressions, I find it easier to sympathize with him. At least H.H. had the cunning to deprecate himself in the reader's eyes, allowing her to labour under the delusion that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Also, the man has a way with words. Hermann struggles with them; writing makes his "heart itch."

Nabokov foresaw comparisons between the two. In the foreword to the novel, which was added after the publication of Lolita (Despair came first) he writes: "Hermann and Humbert are alike only in the sense that two dragons painted by the same artist at different periods of his life resemble each other. Both are neurotic scoundrels, yet there is a green lane in Paradise where Humbert is permitted to wander at dusk once a year; but Hell shall never parole Hermann" (Nabokov, xiii).

Good.

So, Humbert 1, Hermann 0. In a war of the words, Humbert's narrative voice could suffocate Hermann's any day.

I'm still trying to keep an open mind about this novel, but as I'm more than halfway through, prognosis isn't looking fantastic. The dislike makes it a challenge to write about, as well. But, as I seem to be complaining the most about Hermann's narrative voice, perhaps I'll close by discussing it, as well as the narrative frame.

Of the Nabokov novels that I have read thus far, it would seem as though Nabokov enjoys playing with frame narratives. In Lolita, Sebastian Knight, and now Despair, each novel contains a story within a story, involving the narrator looking back on the inner tale. Nabokov seems to use this technique in order to be able to commune with the reader, often in direct address.

In Despair, the main purpose of the frame narrative seems to be to put the reader in an inferior position. Hermann repeatedly refers to himself as a liar, often digresses, and continually comments that his relation of an event wasn't how the instance actually occurred. Early on, we are offered this amusing tidbit: "A slight digression: that bit about my mother was a deliberate lie ... I purposely leave it there as a sample of one of my essential traits: my light-hearted, inspired lying" (Nabokov, 4).

To which I, as a reader, think, "Ha! Okay, you're not to be 100% trusted. Interesting ... now onward."

He reiterates, comparing himself to an artist, because all art is a lie: "Not a day passed without my telling some lie. I lied as a nightingale sings, ecstatically, self-obliviously; reveling in the new life-harmony which I was creating" (46).

Okay, still keeping that in my mind as I read on.

Then, he offers a more irritating curveball. Repeatedly. About once every rambling, 'vague' chapter (as the end of one chapter, quite correctly, identifies itself) we get something resembling this: "Did it actually go on like this? Am I faithfully following the lead of my memory, or has perchance my pen mixed the steps and wantonly danced away?" (88).

Yes, it's funny, but only up to a point. As the digressions and lies layer, thicken and become tangled, it becomes fairly frustrating to try and see through. I find that in this tangle of thorns, (why, why does Humbert always creep into my thoughts?) the thread of the narrative becomes increasingly difficult to grasp. Perhaps that's the point ... but I can't say I enjoy it.

And thus, it has just occurred to me - perhaps the reason that I'm not enjoying this novel is because I can't get a foothold. Nabokov wrote that a good reader must be armed with memory, a bit of imagination, and ... something else I can't seem to remember (and I'm not trying to be funny, it has genuinely slipped my mind.) But if I can't figure out what to hone in on, I feel as though I am missing something crucial. I feel like a commuter who has just heard the subway door chime, charged the doors, gotten stuck, had to pull out the wrong way, and ultimately failed. ("Please, wait for the next train.")

Perhaps it is the feeling of inferiority with which I struggle. Not that I don't always feel inferior when I read Nabokov (my goodness, of course I do, which is probably why I couldn't immediately discern why this novel is giving me such trouble), but this time he seems to be making more of an intellectual doormat of me than what has become somewhat usual.

If I am to learn anything from this, it is the degree to which the author can manipulate the reader through the voice of the narrator. From what I have read of the novel thus far, I believe that as a reader of Despair, I am supposed to feel somewhat wrong-footed and doubtful about the events that are being related by Hermann. This, in turn, informs my perception of his character, and (possibly, we will see) shapes the way that I view the rest of the novel.

As I so often find myself saying when it comes to Nabokov - now that's power.

It is a challenge to write well and in detail on a book which I haven't yet completed, so I shall conclude my rambling little discourse here (dear me, I'm beginning to sound like Hermann.) I will do another post on Despair in a few days or so, on the figure of the 'double,' once I finish.

After that, I shall squeeze in a few other novels before delving into my next Nabokov, which I purchased yesterday: Invitation to a Beheading.

Sounds like it should be a nice, light, uplifting read.


Works Cited

Nabokov, Vladimir. Despair. New York: Vintage, 1989.

GUILT.

Admission - I have been neglecting my Nabokov.

But! For good reason. Reason which takes the form of a beautiful novel by a brilliant Canadian woman: Margaret Atwood's Alias Grace . (At long last, I have mastered the art of the HTML 'underline' tags and can stop butchering my citations!)

The novel is beautiful, epic, engrossing .... and it is keeping me from my Nabokov. I feel tremendously guilty, as though I have been standing someone up.

So this is just a formal note to say - I have almost finished the beauty that is Alias Grace and will be beginning Nabokov's Despair by the beginning of the week. Regrettably (or mercifully, I suppose, depending on your position) I won't be doing a second post on Sebastian Knight - but only because I think it's high time I get this project moving and start in on a new novel. So I shan't wait until I am finished reading Despair to begin posting on it.

So, that's all. Sorry, V.N. I really do adore you, but I cannot read your books one after another, because you are simply too brilliant. Thankfully, waiting in the wings for me to lurch off the Nabokovian stage and grope amongst the world of fiction, are so ... many ... books ...

Novel #2 - "The Real Life of Sebastian Knight" Part I: A Common Rhythm

" 'Sebastian Knight?' said a sudden voice in the mist, 'Who is speaking of Sebastian Knight?' " (Nabokov, 49).

Sebastian Knight. Light of my life, fire of my –

Let’s start again.

Sebastian Knight. The real Sebastian Knight. Sebastian Knight unveiled, uncloaked, unmasked. “The Real Life of Sebastian Knight.” Written in 1938-39 and published in 1941, “Sebastian Knight” showcases Nabokov's brilliant first attempt at grabbing the English language around its unsuspecting throat and forcing out some exceptional prose, despite it being his second language. That we can glimpse some of his linguistic struggles through Knight’s own difficulties makes Nabokov’s achievement all the more remarkable.

Initially, the structure of the novel seems straightforward. “The Real Life of Sebastian Knight” is a work of fiction that is presented as a biography. The ‘biography’ is written as a frame narrative: after the death of Sebastian Knight, the famous writer, his half-brother takes it upon himself to faithfully set down Knight’s enigmatic life. The frame of the novel shares the journey of the half-brother as he attempts to unearth Knight’s life, whereas the inner narrative is composed of his discoveries.

Thus, the novel begins by providing two very clear lenses for the reader to peer cautiously through (I’m learning that that’s how I need to read Nabokov: cautiously, with continuous checks of my rearview mirrors and blind spots, and the occasional clumsy feint. Apologies for the mixing of metaphors.)

To reiterate – two clear lenses: The story of Sebastian Knight emerges from the pen of the biographer, who emerges from the pen of Nabokov. It seems a very clear hierarchy: Nabokov – narrator – Knight. (“An … alliteration which it would have been a pity to withhold” (Nabokov, 1). Or, alternatively, “The tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth …” Ah, Humbert.)

So, to return to the opening quote, when a disembodied voice on the Cambridge campus inquires, “Who is speaking of Sebastian Knight?” it doesn’t seem like there needs to be much hesitation before you exclaim, “Well, his biographer!”

Let’s talk a bit about this biographer.

The first-person narrator/biographer, Sebastian Knight’s half-brother, is a fellow about whom we initially know remarkably little. He repeatedly insists that he wants to let “as little of himself as possible” permeate his treatise, but inevitably reveals more than he intends.

Here is what he explicitly reveals: He is Sebastian’s half-brother (same father, different mothers), he is six years younger than Sebastian, he owns a firm, he is Russian, and he is writing a biography about Sebastian Knight.

We also know that he is referred to as ‘V,’ his middle name is almost the same as his first name, and that he continually defines himself in relation to his brother.

It is interesting to note that a handful of his personal details match up with the personal details of Vladimir Nabokov. The ‘V’ is self-explanatory. The cultural history (Russian émigré) is a clear match as well. The issue of middle name is cleverly revealed – the narrator introduces himself to a character named Paul, and Paul laughs and responds with something to the effect of, “Sure, and I’m Pahl Pahlich.” (Amusingly, V continues to refer to him by this ironic name throughout the scene.) The connection to Nabokov is that his full name follows a similar pattern to Pahl Pahlich - Vladimir Vladimirovich. The last clear-cut detail (I’m sure there are more, these are only what I managed to extract) took a brief interlude of research, which, on my summer break, translates into no more than a Wikipedia visit.

However, I am proud to say that I was following a hunch.

The hypothesis in question concerned the father of V and Sebastian Knight. (When I say ‘V,’ I am referring to the half-brother.) V’s father was killed in a gun-duel for defending the honour of his first wife. V also bears his father’s name. (My thought process: “Now wouldn’t it be interesting if Nabokov’s father …) The connection? Nabokov’s father also went by the name of Vladimir Nabokov, and … was shot for defending the politician Pavel Miliukov.

I thought the similarities were a little more important than a friendly-neighbourhood case of ‘art imitating life’ (a phrase that I positively despise) and I had previously learned my lesson about passing things off as mere ‘coincidence’ (see post #3), so I decided to keep them in the back of my mind.

Back to V – what I think are more important than his parallels with Nabokov are his parallels with Sebastian. However, these similarities seem more like ripples in water than outright parallel tracks:

“I daresay Sebastian and I also had some kind of common rhythm; this might explain the curious “it-has-happened-before-feeling” which seizes me when following the bends of his life. And if, as often was the case with him, the “why’s” of his behaviour were as many X’s, I often find their meaning disclosed now in a subconscious turn of this or that sentence put down by me” (Nabokov, 32).

A little later in the novel, V observes a portrait of Sebastian that is painted as a reflection in a pond – thus, the viewer of the picture is given the illusion that he is “…mirrored, Narcissus-like in clear water … Thus Sebastian peers into a pool at himself” (Nabokov, 117). The image of V observing the portrait and Sebastian observing himself blend together as each man regards the same reflection.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Near the midpoint of the novel, V enters into an elaborate, borderline obsequious (as I perceive it) description of Knight’s own fiction. Among his detailed descriptions appears the following passage:

"He had a queer habit of endowing even his most grotesque characters with this or that idea, or impression, or desire which he himself might have toyed with ... The light of personal truth is hard to perceive in the shimmer of imaginary nature, but what is still harder to understand is the amazing fact of a man writing of things which he really felt at the time of writing, could have had the power to create simultaneously - and out of the very things which distressed his mind - a fictitious and faintly absurd character" (Nabokov, 112).

This passage did not immediately appear important to me - rather, it appeared somewhat ironic. My initial thought was, “Isn’t that quite common of art?” And I read onward. But then – then the book slowly began to take on characteristics of the Knightian style that had just been so painstakingly described. Then the true weight of the passage made itself apparent to me – it was a warning, a clue. (My words make it sound as though I am attempting to parody a detective investigation, something else that the novel accomplishes.)

Near the beginning of the novel, V expresses his desire for his investigation to take on the “turns of a well-oiled novel.” Of course, this is exactly what he gets. Direct parallels to Sebastian Knight’s novels – including what seemed to me a very Dostoevsky-like train journey of bleary eyes, banging shins and nightmarish dream sequences – slowly come into being. A dramatic detective sequence reveals the identity of Sebastian Knight’s hitherto unidentified Russian lover. A previously-described character from one of Knight’s novels appears and is the catalyst for the climax of the plot.

But if V is the biographer, and he has just been brought down to the level of a character by more or less walking into a Knight novel, then V must be a character possessing “…this or that idea, or impression, or desire which [the author] himself might have toyed with …”

Factor in the idea of V as Sebastian’s ghostly double, and suddenly, all of the leads are rescinded and this novel seems a lot less like a cut-and-dried fictional biography. The Nabokov-V-Knight hierarchy is more or less demolished as the lines between biographer and subject, writer and character become blurred.

My realization was not unlike the penny-dreadful staple: “But if we’re all here in the compartment … THEN WHO’S DRIVING THE TRAIN?”

I was reminded of the Humbert-Quilty tussle at the end of Lolita: “I rolled over him. We rolled over me. They rolled over him. We rolled over us.”

My preferred interpretation is this: It would seem that V is not, in fact, a biographer, but is merely another brilliant Sebastian Knight creation. Knight, the true fictional author, has structured a puzzle of a novel that mocks the conventions of detective stories, mocks the conventions of biography, mocks the conventions of his own fiction, and ultimately mocks the obsession with art-imitating-life-imitating-art.

The artist always wins.

And then, standing above the fray (or leaning over a suitcase arranged over a toilet as he wrote in the privacy of the bathroom, if Wikipedia has it right), adding yet another dimension, mind-bendingly, Russian-nesting-doll-style, wringing me of disconnected appositives, is Nabokov.

Nabokov, who has subtly aligned himself with the Cambridge-educated writer Knight, and the elusive V, factors himself into this equation. Because the puzzle, apparently created by Knight, is presided over by Nabokov. But just as V and Knight possessed a degree of doubling in their character-author relationship, so, perhaps, do Knight and Nabokov. The idea of Nabokov dropping clues in the form of ironic life-parallels seems to gesture to this, but is ultimately a reflexive hat-tip to his status as ultimate puppet-master. That image gives a powerful ring to the novel’s final words:

“I am Sebastian, or Sebastian is I, or perhaps we both are someone whom neither of us knows” (Nabokov, 203).

Because, of course, even if Sebastian created V, who created Sebastian?



Hi, Vladimir.

So, I ask again: “Who is speaking of Sebastian Knight?”

…

(Exeunt.)

P.S. For the next post, I hope to extract a cohesive sliver of an answer from the big ‘why’ that’s hanging over my head with respect to Nabokov’s game. And if Nabokov’s ‘why’s’ are so many X’s, I hope to find an echo of their meaning in a subconscious turn of a rambling post put down by me (Ha.) I shall also be reaching for the “What did I learn” button, in an attempt to fulfill my basic purpose – to learn about fiction. To supplement my discussion, I will hopefully draw from A.S. Byatt’s “Possession,” which is magical thus far and which I am excited to lose myself within. Meanwhile, I shall delve slowly into my third Nabokov – “Despair.” Onward we go!

Thanks for reading; comments are most appreciated.

Interlude - "Possession"

My favourite place to read is outside.

I spent a few hours outdoors yesterday, reading (and going back and re-reading certain bits of) "Sebastian Knight," trying to pinpoint what I wished to discuss. The pre-blog mental state of my ideas currently runs something like this (please bear in mind that I'm only halfway through the novel, and the thoughts are quite unformed): "Something about satirizing biography, and how the truth gets changed and refracted as soon as you write about it, so even when you're trying to nail down the truth, literature takes over." Obviously still in the early stages, and I figured I'd have to reach the end before I could clothe and regiment them. But suddenly ...

A book found me.

I believe in the power of a meticulously organized book list. It's motivating, it's exciting, it's ... beautiful. However, I also believe in the existence of certain books that tumble into your life, for which you insult the aforementioned book list as you grant the new volume the allowance to stride proudly, and a little arrogantly, to the front of the queue.

I have met some of my favourite books in this manner. Sometimes it's an author whose name you hear in passing, which subsequently doesn't leave your head and to whose novels you feel yourself oddly drawn despite having never read them. Sometimes it's a title from the bottom of your book list whose stock suddenly, inexplicably skyrockets and you feel that you can't let another word pass from your eyes and into your body until you find out what lies between those two covers. Or sometimes - and this is my favourite way - the name of the book/author keeps appearing in your life in very coincidental ways. That means it's unquestionably time to read this book, list be damned.

I know. It sounds ridiculous. But it does happen. That's how I was introduced to John Updike. And that is how I found "Possession" by A.S. Byatt.

"Possession." Written in 1991, it tells the story of two young academics who discover a love affair between the two Victorian poets whose work they are researching. On the grounds of the premise, I was hooked right away. Then I read a bit about the novel and discovered that the title refers to, among other things, "... the possessiveness that a biographer feels toward his subject." I read that the novel is intended, in some respects, to parody biography.

Hmm.

I ran out and bought the book (among others) and was struck by the fittingness of the preface, part of which is an excerpt from Robert Brownings 'Mr. Sludge, "The Medium" ' - a poem that mocks biography as a manipulation of truth comparable to literature.

WELL.

That's timing. And I just picked it up because I was drawn to the stunning premise. But Nabokovian coincidence seems to have seeped into my literary endeavours.

I'll be done "Sebastian Knight" long before I work my way through the brick that is "Possession" (having adopted more characteristics of the Victorian novel than just the partial setting.) However, I am convinced that this book that swooped into my life will aid me in articulating my thoughts on my current Nabokov novel.

Ten o'clock. Time to make tea and park myself outside. I'll take both novels with me. I think I'll start the day with "Possession," but I'd like to be in the company of both books just because I think there's a nice mutual understanding between the three of us at the moment. Signing off - expect a post on a completed "Sebastian" (with help from a dented "Possession") by midweek.

Oh, and the best part. What do you think is on the cover of "Possession"?

That's right. Butterflies.