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?