Nabokov's interview. (06) Wisconsin Studies [1967]

      This interview (published in Wisconsin Studies in Contemporary Literature, vol. VIII, no. 2, spring 1967) was conducted on September 25, 27, 28, 29, 1966, at Montreux, Switzerland. Mr. Nabokov and his wife have for the last six years lived in an opulent hotel built in 1835, which still retains its nineteenth-century atmosphere. Their suite of rooms is on the sixth floor, overlooking Lake Geneva, and the sounds of the lake are audible through the open doors of their small balcony. Since Mr. Nabokov does not like to talk off the cuff (or "Off the Nabocuff," as he said) no tape recorder was used. Mr. Nabokov ei! ther wrote out his answers to the questions or dictated them to the interviewer; in some instances, notes from the conversation were later recast as formal questions-and-answers. The interviewer was Nabokov's student at Cornell University in 1954, and the references are to Literature 311-312 (MWF, 12), a course on the Masterpieces of European Fiction (Jane Austen, Gogol, Dickens, Flaubert, Tolstoy, Stevenson, Kafka, Joyce, and Proust). Its enrollment had reached four hundred by the time of Nabokov's resignation in 1959. The footnotes to the interview, except where indicated, are provided by the interviewer, Alfred Appel, Jr.

      For years bibliographers and literary journalists didn't know whether to group you under "Russian" or "American. "Now that you're living in Switzerland there seems to be complete agreement that you're American. Do you find this kind of distinction at all important regarding your identity as a writer?

      I have always maintained, even as a schoolboy in Russia, that the nationality of a worthwhile writer is of secondary importance. The more distinctive an insect's aspect, the less apt the taxonomist is to glance first of all at the locality label under the pinned specimen in order to decide which of several vaguely described races it should be assigned to. The writer's art is his real passport. His identity should be immediately recognized by a special pattern or unique coloration. His habitat may confirm the correctness of the determination but should not lead to it. Locality labels are known to have been faked by unscrupulous insect dealers. Apart from these considerations I think of myself today as an American writer who has once been a Russian o! ne.

      The Russian writers you have translated and written about all precede the so-called "age of realism, " which is more celebrated by English and American readers than is the earlier period. Would you say something about your temperamental or artistic affinities with the great writers of the 1830-40 era of masterpieces? Do you see your own work falling under such general rubrics as a tradition of Russian humor?

      The question of the affinities I may think I have or not have with nineteenth-century Russian writers is a classificational, not a confessional matter. There is hardly a single Russian major writer of the past whom pigeonholers have not mentioned in connection with me. Pushkin's blood runs through the veins of modern Russian literature as inevitably as Shakespeare's through those of English literature.

      Many of the major Russian writers, such as Pushkin, Lermontov, and Bely, have distinguished themselves in both poetry and prose, an uncommon accomplishment in English and American literature. Does this signal fact have anything to do with the special nature of Russian literary culture, or are there technical or linguistic resources which make this kind of versatility more possible in Russian? And as a writer of both prose and poetry, what distinctions do you make between them?

      On the other hand, neither Gogol nor Tolstoy nor Chekhov were distinguished versificators. Moreover, the dividing line between prose and poetry in some of the greatest English or American novels is not easy to draw. I suppose you should have used the term "rhymed poetry" in your question, and then one might answer that Russian rhymes are incomparably more attractive and more abundant than English ones. No wonder a Russian prose writer frequents those beauties, especially in his youth.

      Who are the great American writers you most admire?

      When I was young I liked Poe, and I still love Melville, whom I did not read as a boy. My feelings towards James are rather complicated. I really dislike him intensely but now and then the figure in the phrase, the turn of the epithet, the screw of an absurd adverb, cause me a kind of electric tingle, as if some current of his was also passing through my own blood. Hawthorne is a splendid writer. Emerson's poetry is delightful.

      You have often said that you "don't belong to any club or group, " and I wonder if the historical examples of the ways Russian writers have allowed ideology to determine if not destroy their art, culminating in the Socialist Realism of our own time, have not gone a long way in shaping your own skepticism and aversion to didacticism of any kind. Which "historical examples"' haveyou been most conscious of?

      My aversion to groups is rather a matter of temperament than the fruit of information and thought. I was born that way and have despised ideological coercion instinctively all my life. Those "historical examples" by the way are not as clear-cut and obvious as you seem to imply. The mystical didacticism of Gogol or the utilitarian moralism of Tolstoy, or the reactionary journalism of Dostoevski, are of their own poor making and in the long run nobody really takes them seriously.

      Would you say something about the controversy surrounding the Chernyshevskl biography in The Gift? You have commented on this briefly before, but since its suppression in the thirties expresses such a transcendent irony and seems to justify the need for just such a parody, I think your readers would be most interested, especially since so little is known about the emigre communities, their magazines, and the role of intellectuals in these communities, lf you would like to describe something of the writer's relationship to this world, please do.

      Everything that can be profitably said about Count Godunov-Cherdyntsev's biography of Chernyshevski has been said by Koncheyev in The Gift. I can only add that I devoted as much honest labor to the task of gathering the material for the Chernyshevski chapter as I did to the composing of Shade's poem in Pale Fire. As to the suppression of that chapter by the editors of Sovremennye Zapiski, it was indeed an unprecedented occurrence, quite out of keeping with their exceptional broad-mindedness, for, generally speaking, in their acceptance or rejection of literary works they were guided exclusively by artistic standards. As to the latter part of your question, the revised ! Chapter Fourteen in Speak, Memory will provide additional information.

      Do you have any opinions about the Russian anti-utopian tradition (if it can be called this), from Odoevski's "The Last Suicide" and "A City Without a Name" in Russian Nights to Bryusov's The Republic of the Southern Cross and Zamyatin 's We (to name only a few)?

      I am indifferent to those works.

      Is it fair to say that Invitation to a Beheading and Bend Sinister are cast as mock anti-utopian novels, with their ideological centers removed-- the totalitarian state becoming an extreme and fantastic metaphor for the imprisonment of the mind, thus making consciousness, rather than politics, the subject of these novels?

      Yes, possibly.

      Speaking of ideology, you have often expressed your hostility to Freud, most noticeably in the forewords to your translated novels. Some readers have wondered which of Freud's works or theories you were most offended by and why. The parodies of Freud in Lolita and Pale Fire suggest a wider familiarity with the good doctor than you have ever publicly granted. Would you comment on this?

      Oh, I am not up to discussing again that figure of fun. He is not worthy of more attention than I have granted him in my novels and in Speak, Memory. Let the credulous and the vulgar continue to believe that all mental woes can be cured by a daily application of old Greek myths to their private parts. I really do not care.

      Your contempt for Freud's "standardized symbols" extends to the assumptions of a good many other theorizers. Do you think literary criticism is at all purposeful, and if so, what kind of criticism would you point to? Pale Fire makes it clear what sort you find gratuitous (at best}.

      My advice to a budding literary critic would be as follows. Learn to distinguish banality. Remember that mediocrity thrives on "ideas." Beware of the modish message. Ask yourself if the symbol you have detected is not your own footprint. Ignore allegories. By all means place the "how" above the "what" but do not let it be confused with the "so what." Rely on the sudden erection of your small dorsal hairs. Do not drag in Freud at this point. All the rest depends on personal talent.

      As a writer, have you ever found criticism instructive-- not so much the reviews of your own books, but any general criticism? From your own experiences do you think that an academic and a literary career nourish one another? Since many writers today know no other alternative than a life on campus I'd be very interested in your feelings about this. Do you think that your own work in America was at all shaped by your being part of an academic community?

      I find criticism most instructive when an expert proves to me that my facts or my grammar are wrong. An academic career is especially helpful to writers in two ways: 1) easy access to magnificent libraries and 2) long vacations. There is of course the business of teaching, but old professors have young instructors to correct examination papers for them, and young instructors, authors in their own right, are followed by admiring glances along the corridors of Vanity-Hall. Otherwise, our greatest rewards, such as the reverberations of our minds in such minds as vibrate responsively in later years, force novelist-teachers to nurse lucidity and honesty of style in their lectures.

      What are the possibilities of literary biography?

      They are great fun to write, generally less fun to read. Sometimes the thing becomes a kind of double paper chase: first, the biographer pursues his quarry through letters and diaries, and across the bogs of conjecture, and then a rival authority pursues the muddy biographer.

      Some critics may find the use of coincidence in a novel arch or contrived. I recall that you yourself at Cornell called Dostoevski's usage of coincidence crude.

      But in "real" life they do happen. Last night you were telling us at dinner a very funny story about the use of the title "Doctor" in Germany, and the very next moment, as my loud laughter was subsiding, I heard a person at the next table saying to her neighbor in clear French tones corning through the tinkling and shuffling sounds of a restaurant-- "Of course, you never know with the Germans if 'Doctor' means a dentist or a lawyer." Very often you meet with some person or some event in "real" life that would sound pat .in a story. It is not the coincidence in the story that bothers us so much as the coincidence of coincidences in several stories by different writers, as, for instance, the r! ecurrent eavesdropping device in nineteenth-century Russian fiction.

      Could you tell us something about your work habits as a writer, and the way you compose your novels. Do you use an outline? Do you have a full sense of where a fiction is heading even while you are in the early stages of composition?

      In my twenties and early thirties, I used to write, dipping pen in ink and using a new nib every other day, in exercise books, crossing out, inserting, striking out again, crumpling the page, rewriting every page three or four times, then copying out the novel in a different ink and a neater hand, then revising the whole thing once more, re-copying it with new corrections, and finally dictating it to my wife who has typed out all my stuff. Generally speaking, I am a slow writer, a snail carrying its house at the rate of two hundred pages of final copy per year (one spectacular exception was the Russian original of Invitation to a Beheading, the first draft of which I wrote in one fortnight of wonderful excitement and sustained inspiration). In those days and nights I gen! erally followed the order of chapters when writing a novel but even so, from the very first, I relied heavily on mental composition, constructing whole paragraphs in my mind as I walked in the streets or sat in my bath, or lay in bed, although often deleting or rewriting them afterward. In the late thirties, beginning with The Gift, and perhaps under the influence of the many notes needed, I switched to another, physically more practical, method-- that of wanting with an eraser-capped pencil on index cards. Since I always have at the very start a curiously clear preview of the entire novel before me or above me, I find cards especially convenient when not following the logical sequence of chapters but preparing instead this or that passage at any point of the novel and filling in the gaps in no special order. I am afraid to ! get mixed up with Plato, whom I do not care for, but I do think that in my case it is true that the entire book, before it is written, seems to be ready ideally in some other, now transparent, now dimming, dimension, and my job is to take down as much of it as I can make out and as precisely as I am humanly able to. The greatest happiness I experience in composing is when I feel I cannot understand, or rather catch myself not understanding (without the presupposition of an already existing creation) how or why that image or structural move or exact formulation of phrase has just come to me. It is sometimes rather amusing to find my readers trying to elucidate in a matter-of-fact way these wild workings of my not very efficient mind.

      One often hears from writers talk of how a character takes hold of them and in a sense dictates the course of the action. Has this ever been your experience?

      I have never experienced this. What a preposterous experience! Writers who have had it must be very minor or insane. No, the design of my novel is fixed in my imagination and every character follows the course I imagine for him. I am the perfect dictator in that private world insofar as I alone am responsible for its stability and truth. Whether I reproduce it as fully and faithfully as I would wish, is another question. Some of my old works reveal dismal blurrings and blanks.

      Pale Fire appears to some readers to be in part a gloss of Plato's myth of the cave, and the constant play of Shades and Shadows throughout your work suggests a conscious Platonism. Would you care to comment on this possibility?

      As I have said I am not particularly fond of Plato, nor would I survive very long under his Germanic regime of militarism and music. I do not think that this cave business has anything to do with my Shade and Shadows.

      Since we are mentioning philosophy per se, I wonder if we might talk about the philosophy of language that seems to unfold in your works, and whether or not you have consciously seen the similarities, say, between the language of Zemblan and what Ludwig Wittgenstein bad to say about a "private language. " Your poet's sense of the limitations of language is startlingly similar to Wittgenstein's remark on the referential basis of language. Whi! le you were at Cambridge, did you have much contact with the philosophy faculty?

      No contact whatsoever. I am completely ignorant of Wittgenstein's works, and the first time I heard his name must have been in the fifties. In Cambridge I played football and wrote Russian verse.

      When in Canto Two John Shade describes himself, "I stand before the window and I pare/My fingernails, "you are echoing Stephen Dedalus in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, on the artist who "remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails. " In almost all of your novels, especially in Invitation to a Beheading, Bend Sinister, Pale Fire, and Pnin-- but even in Lolita, in the person of the seventh hunter in Quilty's play, and in several other phosphorescent glimmers which are visible to th! e careful reader-- the creator is indeed bebind or abo-ve his handiwork, but be is not invisible and surely not indifferent. To what extent are you consciously "answering" Joyce in Pale Fire, and what are your feelings about bis esthetic stance-- or alleged stance, because perhaps you may think that Stephen's remark doesn't apply to Ulysses.?

      Neither Kinbote nor Shade, nor their maker, is answering Joyce in Pale Fire. Actually, I never liked A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. I find it a feeble and garrulous book. The phrase you quote is an unpleasant coincidence.

      You have granted that Pierre Delalande influenced you, and I would readily admit that influence-mongering can be reductive and deeply offensive if it tries to deny a writer's originality. But in the instance of yourself and Joyce, it seems to me that you've consciously profited from Joyce's example without imitating him-- that you've realized the implications in Ulysses without having had recourse to obviously "Joycean" devices (stream-of-consciousness, the "callage" effects created out of the vast flotsam and jetsam of everyday life). Would you comment on what Joyce ! has meant to you as a writer, his importance in regard to his liberation and expansion of the novel form?

      My first real contact with Ulysses, after a leering glimpse in the early twenties, was in the thirties at a time when I was definitely formed as a writer and immune to any literary influence. I studied Ulysses seriously only much later, m the fifties, when preparing my Cornell courses. That was the best part of the education I received at Cornell. Ulysses towers over the rest of Joyce's writings, and in comparison to its noble originality and unique lucidity of thought and style the unfortunate Finnegans Wake is nothing but a formless and dull mass of phony folklore, a cold pudding of a book, a persistent snore in the next room, most aggravating to the insomniac! I am. Moreover, I always detested regional literature full of quaint old-timers and imitated pronunciation. Finnegans Wake's facade disguises a very conventional and drab tenement house, and only the infrequent snatches of heavenly intonations redeem it from utter insipidity. I know I am going to be excommunicated for this pronouncement.

      Although I cannot recall your mentioning the involuted structure of Ulysses when you lectured on Joyce, I do remember your insisting that the hallucinations in Nighttown are the author's and not Stephen's or Bloom's, which is one step away from a discussion of the involution. This is an aspect of Ulysses almost totally ignored by the Joyce Industry, and an aspect of Joyce which would seem to be of great interest to you. If Joyce's somewhat inconsistent involutions tend to be obscured by the vastness of his structures, it might he said that the structuring of your novels depends on the strategy of involution. Could you comment on this, or compare your sense of Joyce's presence in and above his works with your own intention-- that is, Joyce's covert appearances in Ulysses; the whole Shakespeare-paternity theme which ultimately spirals into the idea of the "parentage" of Ulysses itself; Shakespeare's direct address to Joyce in Nighttown ("How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursday-momum, " that be! ing Bloomsday); and Molly's plea to Joyce, "0 Jamesy let me up out of this"-- all this as against the way the authorial voice-- or what you call the "anthropomorphic deity impersonated by me"-- again and again appears in your novels, most strikingly at the end.

      One of the reasons Bloom cannot be the active party in the Nighttown chapter (and if he is not, then the author is directly dreaming it up for him, and around him, with some "real" episodes inserted here and there) is that Bloom, a wilting male anyway, has been drained of his manhood earlier in the evening and thus would be quite unlikely to indulge in the violent sexual fancies of Nighttown.

      Ideally, how should a reader experience or react to "the end" of one of your novels, that moment when the vectors are removed and the fact of the fiction is underscored, the cast dismissed? What common assumptions about literature are you assaulting?

      The question is so charmingly phrased that I would love to answer it with equal elegance and eloquence, but I cannot say very much. I think that what I would welcome at the close of a book of mine is a sensation of its world receding in the distance and stopping somewhere there, suspended afar like a picture in a picture: The Artist's Studio by Van Bock.

      It may well be a failure of perception, but I've always been unsure of the very last sentences of Lolita, perhaps because the shift in voice at the close of your other books is so clear, but is one supposed to "hear" a different voice when the masked narrator says "And do not pity C. Q. One bad to choose between him and H. H., and one wanted H.H. . . ."and so forth? The return to the first person in the next sentence makes me think that the mask has not been lifted, but readers trained on Invitation to a Beheading, among other books, are always looking for the imprint of that "master thumb, " to quote Franklin Lane in Pale Fire, "that made the whole involuted, boggling thing one beautiful straight line. "

      No, I did not mean to introduce a different voice. T did want, however, to convey a constriction of the narrator's sick heart, a warning spasm causing him to abridge names and hasten to conclude his tale before it was too late. I am glad T managed to achieve this remoteness of tone at the end.

      Do Franklin Lane's Letters exist? I don't wish to appear like Mr. Goodman in The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, but I understand that Franklin Lane did exist.

      Frank Lane, his published letters, and the passage cited by Kinbote, certainly exist. Kinbote was rather struck by Lane's handsome melancholy face. And of course "lane" is the last word of Shade's poem. The latter has no significance.

      In which of your early works do you think you first begin to face the possibilities that are fully developed in Invitation to a Beheading and reach an apotheosis in the "involute abode" of Pale Fire.?

      Possibly in The Eye, but Invitation to a Beheading is on the whole a burst of spontaneous generation.

      Are there other writers whose involuted effects you admire? Sterne? Pirandello's plays?

      I never cared for Pirandello. I love Sterne but had not read him in my Russian period.

      The Afterword to Lolita is significant, obviously, for many reasons. Is it included in all the translations, which, I understand, number about twenty-five?


      You once told me after a class at Cornell that you 'd been unable to read more than one hundred or so pages of' Finnegans Wake. As it happens, on page 104 there begins a section very close in spirit to Pale Fire, and I wonder if you've ever read this, or seen the similarity. It is the history of all the editions and interpretations of Anna Livia Plurabelle's Letter (or "Mamafesta, " text included). Among the three pages listing the various titles of ALP's letter, Joyce includes Try our Taal on a Taub (which we are already doing), and I wondered if you ! would comment on Swift's contribution to the literature about the corruption of learning and literature. Is it only a coincidence that Kinbote's "Forword" to Pale Fire is dated "Oct. 19, " which is the date of Swift's death?

      I finished Finnegans Wake eventually. It has no inner connection with Pale Fire. I think it is so nice that the day on which Kinbote committed suicide (and he certainly did after putting the last touches to his edition of the poem) happens to be both the anniversary of Pushkin's Lyceum and that of "poor old man Swift" 's death, which is news to me (but see variant in note to line 231). In common with Pushkin, I am fascinated by fatidic dates. Moreover, when dating some special event in my novels I often choose a more or less familiar one as a point de repere (which helps to check a possible misprint in the proofs), as for instance "April I" in the diary of Hermann in Despair.

      Mention of Swift moves me to ask about the genre
of Pale Fire; as a "monstrous semblance of a novel, " do you see it in terms of some tradition or form?

      The form of Pale Fire is specifically, if not generically, new. I would like to take this pleasant opportunity to correct the following misprints in the Putnam edition, 1962, second impression: On page 137, end of note to line 143, "rustic" should be "rusty". On page 151, "Catkin Week" should be "Catkin Week." On page 223, the line number in the reference at the end of the first note should be not "550" but "549". On page 237, top, "For" should he "for". On page 241, the word "lines" after "disent-prise" should be "rhymes". And on page 294, the comma after "Arnold" should be replaced by an open parenthesis. Thank you.

      Do you make a clear distinction between satire and parody? I ask this because you have so often said you do not wish to be taken as a "moral satirist, " and yet parody is so central to your vision.

      Satire is a lesson, parody is a game.

      Chapter Ten in The Real Life of Sebastian Knight contains a wonderful description of how parody functions in your own novels. But your sense of what "parody " means seems to stretch the usual definition, as when Cincinnatus in Invitation to a Beheading tells his mother, "You're still only a parody . . . Just like this spider, just like those bars, just like the striking of that clock. " All art, then, or at least all attempts at a "realistic" art, would seem to produce a distortion, a "parody. " Would you expand on what you mean by "parody" and why, as Fyodor says in The Gift, "The spirit of parody always goes along with genuine poetry"?

      When the poet Cincinnatus C., in my dreamiest and most poetical novel, accuses (not quite fairly) his mother of being a parody, he uses the word in its familiar sense of "grotesque imitation." When Fyodor, in The Gift, alludes to that "spirit of parody" which plays iridescently around the spray of genuine "serious" poetry, he is referring to parody in the sense of an essentially lighthearted, delicate, mockingbird game, such as Pushkin's parody of Derzhavin in Exegi Monumentum.

      What is your opinion of Joyce's parodies? Do you see any difference in the artistic effect of scenes such as the maternity hospital and the beach interlude with Gerty Macdowell? Are you familiar with the work of younger American writers who have been influenced by both you and Joyce, such as Thomas Pynchon (a Cornellian, Class of '59, who surely was in Literature 312), and do you have any opinion on the current ascendancy of the so-called parody-novel (John Barth, for instance)?

      The literary parodies in the Maternal Hospital chapter are on the whole jejunish. Joyce seems to have been hampered by the general sterilized tone he chose for that chapter, and this somehow dulled and monotonized the in] aid skits. On the other hand, the frilly novelette parodies in the Masturbation scene are highly successful; and the sudden junction of its cliches with the fireworks and tender sky of real poetry is a feat of genius. I am not familiar with the works of the two other writers you mention.

      Why, in Pale Fire, do you call parody the "last resort of wit"?

      It is Kinbote speaking. There are people whom parody upsets.

      Are the composition of Lolita and Speak, Memory, two very different books about the spell exerted by the past, at all connected in the way that the translations of The Song of lgor's Campaign and Eugene Onegin are related to Pale Fire? Had you finished all the notes to Onegin before you began Pale Fire?

      Yes, I had finished all my notes to Onegin before I began Pale Fire. Flaubert speaks in one of his letters, in relation to a certain scene in Madame Bovary, about the difficulty of painting couleur sur couleur. This in a way is what I tried to do in retwisting my own experience when inventing Kinbote. Speak, Memory is strictly autobiographic. There is nothing autobiographic in Lolita.

      Although self-parody seems to be a vital part of your work, you are a writer who believes passionately in the primacy of the imagination. Yet your novels are filled with little details that seem to have been purposely pulled from your own life, as a reading of
Speak, Memory makes clear, not to mention the overriding patterns, such as the lepidopteral motif, which extend through so many of your books. They seem to partake of something other than the involuted voice, to suggest some clearly held idea about the interrelationship between self-knowledge and artistic creation, self-parody and identity. Would you comment on this, and the significance of autobiographical hints in works of art that are literally not autobiographical?

      I would say that imagination is a form of memory. Down, Plato, clown, good dog. An image depends on the power of association, and association is supplied and prompted hy memory. When we speak of a vivid individual recollection we are paying a compliment not to our capacity of retention hut to Mnemosyne's mysterious foresight in having stored up this or that element which creative imagination may want to use when combining it with later recollections and inventions. In this sense, both memory and imagination arc a negation of time.

      C. P. Snow has complained about the gulf between the "two cultures, " the literary and scientific communities. As someone who has bridged this gulf, do you see the sciences and humanities as necessarily opposed? Have your experiences as a scientist influenced your performance as an artist? Is it fanciful to use the -vocabulary of physics in describing the structures of some of your novels?

      I might have compared myself to a Colossus of Rhodes bestriding the gulf between the thermodynamics of Snow and the Laurentomania of Leavis, had that gulf not been a mere dimple of a ditch that a small frog could straddle. The terms "physics" and "egghead" as used nowadays evoke in me the dreary image of applied science, the knack of an electrician tinkering with bombs and other gadgets. One of those "Two Cultures" is really nothing but utilitarian technology; the other is B-grade novels, ideological fiction, popular art. Who cares if there e! xists a gap between such "physics" and such "humanities"? Those Eggheads are terrible Philistines. A real good head is not oval but round.

      Where, through what window, do lepidoptera come in?

      My passion for lepidopterological research, in the field, in the laboratory, in the library, is even more pleasurable than the study and practice of literature, which is saying a good deal. Lepidopterists arc obscure scientists. Not one is mentioned in Webster. But never mind. I have re-worked the classification of various groups of butterflies, have described and figured several species and subspecies. My names for the microscopic organs that I have been the first to sec and portray have safely found their way into biological dictionaries (compare this to the wretched entry under "nymphet" in Webster's latest edition). The tactile delights of pr
ecise delineation, the silent paradise of the camera lucida, and the precision of poetry in taxonomic description represent the artistic side of the thrill which accumulation of new knowledge, absolutely useless to the layman, gives its first begetter. Science means to me above all natural science. Not the ability to repair a radio set; quite stubby fingers can do that. Apart from this basic consideration, I certainly welcome the free interchange of terminology between any branch of science and any raceme of art. There is no science without fancy, and no art without facts. Aphoristicism is a symptom of arteriosclerosis.

      In Pale Fire, Kinbote complains that "The coming of summer represented a problem in optics. " The Eye is well-titled, since you plumb these problems throughout your fiction; the apprehension of "reality" is a miracle of vision, and consciousness is virtually an optical instrument in your work. Have you studied the science of optics at all, and would you say something about your own visual sense, and bow you feel it has served your fiction?

      I am afraid you are quoting this out of context. Kinbote was simply annoyed by the spreading foliage of summer interfering with his Tom-peeping. Otherwise you are right in suggesting that I have good eyes. Doubting Tom should have worn spectacles. It is true, however, that even with the best of visions one must touch things to be quite sure of "reality."

      You have said that Alain Robbe-Grilet and Jorge Luis Borges are among your favorite contemporary writers. Do you find them to be at all similar? Do you think Robbe-Grillet's novels are as free of "psychology" as he claims?

      Robbe-Grillet's claims are preposterous. Those manifestos, those dodoes, die with the dadas. His fiction is magnificentiv poetical and original, and the shifts of levels, the interpenetration of successive impressions and so forth belong of course to psychology-- psychology at its best. Borges is also a man of infinite talent, but his miniature labyrinths and the roomy ones of Robbe-Grillet are quite differently built, and the lighting is not the same.

      / recall your humorous remarks at Cornell about two writers experiencing "telepathy" (I believe you were comparing Dickens and Flaubert). You and Borges were both born in 1899 (but so was Ernest Hemingway!). Your Bend Sinister and Borges' story "The Circular Ruins" are conceptually similar, but you do not read Spanish and that story was first translated into English in 1949, two years after Bend Sinister^ birth, just as in Borges' "The Secret Miracle, " Hladik has created a verse drama uncannily similar to your recently
Englished play. The Waltz Invention, which precedes Borges' tale, but which he could not have read in Russian. When were you first aware of Borges' fictions, and have you and he had any kind of association or contact, other than telepathic?

      I read a Borges story for the first time three or four years ago. Up till then I had not been aware of his existence, nor do I believe he knew, or indeed knows, anything about me. That is not very grand in the way of telepathy. There are affinities between Invitation to a Beheading and The Castle, but I had not yet read Kafka when I wrote my novel. As to Hemingway, I read him for the first time in the early forties, something about bells, balls, and bulls, and loathed it. Later I read his admirable "The Killers" and the wonderful fish story which I was asked to translate into Russian but could not for some reason or other.

      Your first book was a translation of Lewis Carroll into Russian. Do you see any affinities between Carroll's idea of "nonsense" and your bogus or "mongrel" languages in Bend Sinister andPa.\c Fire ?

      In common with many other English children (I \vas an English child) I have been always very fond of Carroll. No, I do not think that his 'invented language shares any roots with mine. He has a pathetic affinity with H. H. but some odd scruple prevented me from alluding in Lolita to his perversion and to those ambiguous photographs he took in dim rooms. He got away with it, as so many other Victorians got away with pederasty and nympholepsy. His were sad scrawny little nymphets, bedraggled and half-undressed, or rather semi-undraped, as if participating in some dusty and dreadful charade.

      You have bad wide experience as a translator and have made fictive use of translation. What basic problems of existence do you find implicit in the art and act of translation?

      There is a certain small Malayan bird of the thrush family which is said to sing only when tormented in an unspeakable way by a specially trained child at the annual Feast of Flowers. There is Casanova making love to a harlot while looking from a window at the nameless tortures inflicted on Damiens. These are the visions that sicken me when I read the "poetical" translations from martyred Russian poets by some of my famous contemporaries. A tortured author and a deceived reader, this is the inevitable outcome of arty paraphrase. The only obje! ct and justification of translation is the conveying of the most exact information possible and this can be only achieved by a literal translation, with notes.

      Mention of translation brings me to one of the Kinbotian problems faced by critics who comment on your Russian novels in translation, but who themselves have no Russian. It has been said that translations such as The Defense and Despair must contain many stylistic revisions (certainly the puns), and moreover are in general much richer in language than Laughter in the Dark, written at about the same time but, unlike the others, translated in the thirties. Would you comment on this? If the style of Laughter in the Dark suggests it should have preceded Despair, perhaps it actually was written much earlier: in the BBC interview of four years ago you said that you wrote Laughter in the Dark when you were twenty-six, which would have been 1925, thus making it your first novel. Did you actually write it this early, or is the reference to age a slip in memory, no doubt caused by the distracting presence of the BBC machinery.

      I touched up details here and there in those novels and reinstated a scene in Despair, as the Foreword explains. That "twenty-six" is certainly wrong. It is either a tele-scopation or I must have been thinking of Masbenka, my first novel written in 1925. The Russian original version (Kamera Obskura) of Laughter in the Dark was written in 1931, three years before Otchayanie (Despair), and an English translation by Winifr! ed Roy, insufficiently revised by me, appeared in London in 1936. A year later, on the Riviera, I attempted-- not quite successfully-- to English the thing anew for Bobbs-Merrill, who published it in New York in 1938.

      There is a parenthetical remark in Despair about a "vulgar, mediocre Herzog. " Is that a bit of added fun about a recent best seller?

      Herzog means "Duke" in German and I was speaking of a conventional statue of a German Duke in a city square.

      Since the reissued edition of Laughter in the Dark is not graced by one of your informative forewords, would you tell us something about the book's inception and the circumstances under which you wrote it? Commentators are quick to suggest similarities between Margot and Lolita, but I'm much more interested in the kinship between Axel Rex and Quilty. Would you comment on this, and perhaps on the other perverters of the imagination one finds throughout your ^work, all of whom seem to share Rex's evil qualities.

      Yes, some affinities between Rex and Quilty exist, as they do between Margot and Lo. Actually, of course, Margot was a common young whore, not an unfortunate little Lolita. Anyway I do not think that those recurrent sexual oddities and morbidities are of much interest or importance. My Lolita has been compared to Emmie in Invitation, to Mariette in Bend Sinister, and even to Colette in Speak, Memory-- the last is especially ludicrous. But I think it might have been simply English jollity and leg-pulling.

      The Doppelganger motif figures prominently throughout your fiction; in Pale Fire one is tempted to call it a Tripling (at least). Would you say that Laughter in the Dark is your earliest Double fiction?

      I do not see any Doubles in Laughter in the Dark. A lover can be viewed as the betrayed party's Double but that is pointless.

      Would you care to comment on bow the Doppelganger motif has been both used and abused from Poe, Hoffmann, Andersen, Dostoevski, Gogol, Stwenson, and Melville, down to Conrad and Mann? Which Doppelganger fictions would you single out for pmise? The Doppelganger subject is a frightful bore.

      What are your feelings about Dostoevski's celebrated The Double; after all, Hermann in Despair considers it as a possible title for his manuscript.

      Dostoevski's The Double is his best work though an obvious and shameless imitation of Gogol's "Nose." Felix in Despair is really a false double.

      Speaking of Doubles brings me to Pnin, which in my experience has proved to be one of your most popular novels and at the same time one of your most elusive to those readers who fail to see the relationship of the narrator and the characters (or who fail to even notice the narrator until it's too late). Four of its seven chapters were published in The New Yorker over a considerable period (1953-57), but the all-important last chapter, in which the narrator takes control, is only in the book. I'd be most interested to know if the design of Pnin was complete while the separate sections were being published
, or whether your full sense of its possibilities occurred later.

      Yes, the design of Pnin was complete in my mind when I composed the first chapter which, I believe, in this case was actually the first of the seven I physically set down on paper. Alas, there was to be an additional chapter, between Four (in which, incidentally, the boy at St. Mark's and Pnin both dream of a passage from my drafts of Pale Fire, the revolution in Zembla and the escape of the king-- that is telepathy for you!) and Five (where Pnin drives a car). In that still uninked chapter, which was beautifully clear in my mind down to the last curve, Pnin recovering in the hospital from a sprained back teaches himself to drive a car in bed by studying a 1935 manual of automobilism found in the hospital library and by manipulating the levers of his cot. Only one of his colleagues visits him there-- Professor Blorenge. The ch! apter ended with Pnin's taking his driver's examination and pedantically arguing with the instructor who has to admit Pnin is right. A combination of chance circumstances in 1956 prevented me from actually writing that chapter, then other events intervened, and it is only a mummy now.

      In a television interview last year, you singled out Bely's St. Petersburg, along with works by Joyce, Kafka, and Proust, as one of the greatest achievements in twentieth-century prose (an endorsement, by the way, which has prompted Grove Press to reissue St. Petersburg, with your statement across the front cover). I greatly admire this novel but, unhappily enough, it is relatively unknown in America. What are its qualities which you most admire? Bely and Joyce are sometimes compared; is the comparison a just one?

is a splendid fantasy, but this is a question I plan to answer elsewhere. There does exist some resemblance in manner between Petersburg and certain passages in Ulysses.

      Although I've never seen it discussed as such, the Ableukhov father-son relationship to me constitutes a doubling, making
Petersburg one of the most interesting and fantastic permutations of the Doppelganger theme. Since this kind of doubling (if you would agree it is one) is surely the kind you'd find more congenial, say, than the use Mann makes of the motif in Death in Venice, would you comment on ifs implications?

      Those murky matters have no importance to me as a writer. Philosophically, I am an indivisible monist. Incidentally, your handwriting is very like mine.

      Bely lived in Berlin in 1922-23. Did you know him there? You and Joyce lived in Paris at the sane time; did you ever meet him?

      Once, in 1921 or 1922, at a Berlin restaurant where I was dining with two girls. I happened to be sitting back to back with Andrey Bely who was dining with another writer, Aleksey Tolstoy, at the table behind me. Both writers were at the time frankly pro-Soviet (and on the point of returning to Russia), and a White Russian, which I still am in that particular sense, would certainly not wish to speak to a bolsbevizan (fellow traveler). I was acquainted with Aleksey Tolstoy but of course ignored him. As to Joyce, I saw him a few times in Paris in the late thirties. Paul and Lucy Leon, close friends of his, were also old friends of mine. One night they brought him to a French lecture I had been asked to deliver on ! Pushkin under the auspices of Gabriel Marcel (it was later published in the Nouvelle revue frangaise). I had happened to replace at the very last moment a Hungarian woman writer, very famous that winter, author of a best-selling novel, I remember its title, La Rue du Chat qui Peche, but not the lady's name. A number of personal friends of mine, fearing that the sudden illness of the lady and a sudden discourse on Pushkin might result in a suddenly empty house, had done their best to round up the kind of audience they knew I would like to have. The house had, however, a pied aspect since some confusion had occurred among the lady's fans. The Hungarian consul mistook me for her husband and, as I entered, dashed towards me with the froth of condolence on his lips. Some people left as soon as I started to speak. A source of unforgettable consolation!
      was the sight of Joyce sitting, arms folded and glasses glinting, in the midst of the Hungarian football team. Another time my wife and I had dinner with him at the Leons' followed by a long friendly evening of talk. I do not recall one word of it but my wife remembers that Joyce asked about the exact ingredients of myod, the Russian "mead," and everybody gave him a different answer. In this connection, there is a marvelous howler in the standard English version of The Brothers Karamazov: a supper table at Zosima's abode is described with the translator hilariously misreading "Medoc" (in Russian transliteration in the original text), a French wine greatly appreciated in Russia, as medok,! the diminutive of myod (mead). It would have been fun to recall that I spoke of this to Joyce but unfortunately I came across this incarnation of The Karamazovs some ten years later.

      You mentioned Aleksey Tolstoy a moment ago. Would you say something about him?

      He was a writer of some talent and has two or three science fiction stories or novels which are memorable. But I wouldn't care to categorize writers, the only category being originality and talent. After all, if we start sticking group labels, we'll have to put The Tempestinthe SF category, and of course thousands of other valuable works.

      Tolstoy was initially an anti-Bolshevik, and his early work precedes the Revolution. Are there any writers totally of the Soviet period whom you admire?

      There were a few writers who discovered that if they chose certain plots and certain characters they could get away with it in the political sense, in other words, they wouldn't be told what to write and how to finish the novel. llf and Petrov, two wonderfully gifted writers, decided that if they had a rascal adventurer as protagonist, whatever they wrote about his adventures could not be criticized from a political point of view, since a perfect rascal or a madman or a delinquent or any person who was outside Soviet society-- in other words, any picaresque character-- could not be accused either of being a bad Communist or not being a good Communist. Thus Ilf and Petrov, Zoshchenko, and Olesha managed to publish some absolutely first-rate fiction under that standard of complete independence, since these charac! ters, plots, and themes could not be treated as political ones. Until the early thirties they managed to get away with it. The poets had a parallel system. They thought, and they were right at first, that if they stuck to the garden-- to pure poetry, to lyrical imitations, say, of gypsy songs, such as llya. Selvinski's-- that then they were safe. Zabolotski found a third method of writing, as if the "I" of the poem were a perfect imbecile, crooning in a dream, distorting words, playing with words as a half-insane person would. All these people were enormously gifted but the regime finally caught up with them and they disappeared, one by one, in nameless camps.

      By my loose approximation, there remain three novels, some fifty stories, and six plays still in Russian. Are there any plans to translate these? What o/The Exploit, written during what seems to have been your most fecund period as a "Russian writer"-- would you tell us something, however briefly, about this book?

      Not all of that stuff is as good as I thought it was thirty years ago but some of it will probably be published in English by and by. My son is now working on the translation of The Exploit. It is the story of a Russian expatriate, a romantic young man of my set and time, a lover of adventure for adventure's sake, proud flaunter of peril, climber of unnecessary mountains, who merely for the pure thrill of it decides one day to cross illegally into Soviet Russia, and then cross back to exile. Its main theme is the overcoming of fear, the glory and rapture of that victory.

      / understand that The Real Life of Sebastian Knight was written in English in 1938. It is very dramatic to think of you bidding farewell to one language and embarking on a new life in another in this way. Why did you decide to write in English at this time, since you obviously could not have known for certain you would emigrate two years later? How much more writing in Russian did you do between Sebastian Knight and your emigration to America in 1940, and once there, did you ever compose in Russian again?

      Oh, I did know I would eventually land in America. I switched to English after convincing myself on the strength of my translation of Despair that I could use English as a wistful standby for Russian. I still feel the pangs of that substitution, they have not been allayed by the Russian poems (my best) that I wrote in New York, or the 1954 Russian version of Speak, Memory, or even my recent two-years-long work on the Russian translation of Lolita, which will be published in 1967. I wrote Sebastian Knight in Paris, 1938. We had that year a charming flat on rue Saigon, between the Etoile and the Bois. It consisted of a huge handsome room (which served as parlor, bedroom, and nursery) with a small kitchen on one side and a large sunny bathroom on the ot! her. This apartment had been some bachelor's delight but was not meant to accommodate a family of three. Evening guests had to be entertained in the kitchen so as not to interfere with my future translator's sleep. And the bathroom doubled as my study. Here is the Doppelganger theme for you.

      Do you remember any of those "evening guests"?

      I remember Vladislav Hodasevich, the greatest poet of his time, removing his dentures to eat in comfort, just as a grandee would do in the past.

      Many people are surprised to learn that you have written seven plays, which is strange, since your novels are filled with "theatrical" effects that are patently unnovelistic. Is it just to say that your frequent allusions to Shakespeare are more than a matter of playful or respectful homage? What do you think of the drama as a form? What are the characteristics of Shakespeare's plays which you find most congenial to your own esthetic?

      The verbal poetical texture of Shakespeare is the greatest the world has known, and is immensely superior to the structure of his plays as plays. With Shakespeare it is the metaphor that Is the thing, not the play. My most ambitious venture in the domain of drama is a huge screenplay based on Lolita. I wrote it for Kubrick who used only bits and shadows of it for his otherwise excellent film.

      When I was your student, you never mentioned the Homeric parallels in discussing Joyce's Ulysses. But you did supply "special information" in introducing many of the masterpieces: a map of Dublin for Ulysses, the arrangement of streets and lodgings in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, a diagram of the interior of a railway coach on the Moscow-Petersburg express in Anna Karenin, and a floor plan of the Sarnsa apartment in The Metamorphosis and an entomological drawing of Gregor. Would you be able to suggest some equivalent for your own readers?

      Joyce himself very soon realized with dismay that the harping on those essentially easy and vulgar "Homeric parallelisms" would only distract one's attention from the real beauty of his book. He soon dropped these pretentious chapter titles which already were "explaining" the book to non-readers. In my lectures I tried to give factual data only. A map of three country estates with a winding river and a figure of the butterfly Parnassius mnemosyne for a cartographic cherub will be the endpaper in my revised edition of Speak, Memory.

      Incidentally, one of my colleagues came into my office recently with the breathless news that Gregor is
not a cockroach (be had read an article to that effect). I told him I've known that for 12 years, and took out my notes to show him my drawing from what was for one day only Entomology 312. What kind of beetle, by the way, was Gregor?

      It was a domed beetle, a scarab beetle with wing-sheaths, and neither Gregor nor his maker realized that when the room was being made by the maid, and the window was open, he could have flown out and escaped and joined the other happy dung beetles rolling the dung balls on rural paths.

      How are you progressing in your novel. The Texture of Time? Since the donnees for some of your novels seem to be present, however fleetingly, in earlier novels, would it be fair to suggest that Chapter Fourteen of Bend Sinister contains the germ for your latest venture?

      In a way, yes; but my Texture of Time, now almost half-ready, is only the central rose-web of a much ampler and richer novel, entitled Ada, about passionate, hopeless, rapturous sunset love, with swallows darting beyond the stained window and that radiant shiver . . .

      Speaking of donnees; At the end o/Pale Fire, Kinbote says of Shade and bis poem, "I even suggested to him a good title-- the title of the book in me whose pages he was to cut: Solus Rex; instead of which I saw Pale Fire, which meant to me nothing."' In 1940 Sovremennye Zapiski published a long section from your "unfinished" novel. Solus Rex, under that title. Does Pale Fire represent the "cutting" of its pages? What is the relationship between it, the other untranslat! ed fragment from Solus Rex ("Ultima Thule,'" published in Novyy Journal, New York, 1942) and Pale Fire?

      My Solus Rex might have disappointed Kinbote less than Shade's poem. The two countries, that of the Lone King and the Zembla land, belong to the same biological zone. Their subarctic bogs have much the same butterflies and berries. A sad and distant kingdom seems to have haunted my poetry and fiction since the twenties. It is not associated with my personal past. Unlike Northern Russia, both Zembla and Ultima Thule are mountainous, and their languages are of a phony Scandinavian type. If a cruel prankster kidnapped Kinbote and placed him, blindfolded, in the Ultima Thule countryside, Kinbote would not know-- at least not immediately-- by the sap smells and bird calls that he was not back in Zembla, but he would be tolerably sure that he was not on the banks of the Neva.

      This may be like asking a father to publicly declare which of his children is most loved, but do you have one novel towards which you feel the most affection, which you esteem over all others?

      The most affection, Lolita, the greatest esteem, Priglashenie na Kazn '.

      And as a closing question, sir, may I return to
Pale Fire: where, please, are the crown jewels bidden?

      In the ruins, sir, of some old barracks near Kobaltana (q.v.); but do not tell it to the Russians.