Nabokov And Dostoevsky

Nabokov's narcissistic excellence of style and a perfect imitation of hints of content makes him probably the first Post-Modern author. The dazzling brilliance of his narration made it possible to dupe armies of professional critics into believing that Lolita actually was a novel about something. However, if you manage to see past the blows and whistles, there is little but a calculated marketing effort to establish him in the Anglo-Saxon book market. What better ploy could one come up with than writing about Americans’ most sensitive spot – child abuse. It’s another topic why Americans are so fascinated with this particular theme that seems to both excite and disgust them. At any rate, Nabokov made the right choice to establish his writing career in the English-speaking world.

In this respect Nabokov’s outspoken hate of Dostoevsky is noteworthy because in a very fundamental way they are total opposites. On one hand we have Nabokov’s stylistic finesse and meticulous attention to detail coupled with the craftily masqueraded absence of content. On the other - Dostoevsky’s awe-inspiring insights into the abysses of human psychology and scarily profound eternal questions of humanity contrasting with feverish, at times even uncouth style, the literary equivalent of Van Gogh's paintings. Dostoevsky was exuberantly abundant in what Nabokov lacked spectacularly: meaningful content and purpose of the plot. Nabokov's sheer intellectual resplendence leaves little doubt that he must have been well aware of that fact.

It is only logical that Nabokov with his piercing analytical ability in linguistic and meticulous attention for detail in style was a translator par excellence. He was a perfect critique and renderer of other people’s works, but when telling his own stories he had to be a pretender, shrouding the absence of his own ideas in an exuberant toga of style with panache matched by a precious few, Oscar Wilde among them.

Nabokov is no doubt a fascinating read. He dazzles you with his intellect and style, carries you away with the enticing plot but at the end of the journey you feel peculiarly empty. All his big promises ends up in an empty flop, something akin to dining on fireworks: mind-boggling and exhilirating but leaving your stomach full of choking smoke. There is nothing in his writing warranting another go.

Dostoevsky's novels on the other hand overwhelm you with the depth and profundity of newly discovered meanings and revelations every time you open the book again. Once you get used to his angsty, strained style, he takes you away on journeys very much alike to Dante's Inferno trip.

To me Nabokov represents Satan's quantitative infinity: an endless entertaining variety for its own sake, metaphorically a beach rave party. When the crazy night of drug-frenzied frolicking wears off, you wake up in the ankle-deep waters amongst empty cans and other flotsam. Both Dostoevsky and Nabokov share the quality of greatness in that the former is the ultimate literary titan, while the latter is the ultimate literary fop.