God Is a Dandy Roll

April 23, 2011 § Leave a comment

Now reading: Speak, Memory, by Vladimir Nabokov.

In honor of Nabokov’s birthday — or I guess I should say “Nabokov’s birthday (observed),” since, as he explains in his foreword, he was born on April 10 according to the Russian Old Style calendar, which translated to the 22nd in the 19th century, the 23rd in the 20th, and he was born in 1899, but his birthdays were observed beginning in 1900, so it’s a complicated mess — I’ll stick to a fairly simple unpacking of one of Vladimir’s more complicated metaphors in the first chapter.  It’s closer to what he would’ve wanted than an exegesis on any “such dull literary lore as autoplagiarism,” I suppose. Mostly I want the excuse to look at it a little more closely, to understand exactly what’s going on in it.

These extended metaphors are a kind of trademark with Nabokov; coming as they often do at the ends of chapters or their sections, they take on the status of bravura arias or crescendoes of thought and image.  (Ironic, those musical metaphors of my own, since Nabokov acknowledges that music doesn’t do a thing for him.)  There’s a real doozy at the end of chapter one, involving a memory of his father being tossed in the air, the angels painted on a grand church ceiling, and a Greek Catholic funeral service; I can’t even delve into this one yet.  At any rate, I think that these metaphors also function as a message to the reader that here lies the author’s real “message,” more than in any mere plot or character.  The play of word-images across memory, character, plot, meaning is what he’s after, the delight of taking a particular comparison as far as it will go to reveal (or conceal?) as much as it can.

So here, at the end of the second section of chapter one, is the metaphor under examination:

Neither in environment nor in heredity can I find the exact instrument that fashioned me, the anonymous roller that pressed upon my life a certain intricate watermark whose unique design becomes visible when the lamp of art is made to shine through life’s foolscap.

The paragraph, a very long one, which this sentence closes began with an exclamation over the dwarfing of the “cosmos” by “a single individual recollection, and its expression in words!” Exceedingly well crafted, this, as you’d expect from VN.  There’s an argument made here, an argument about the primacy of the importance of the human mind and imagination.  But the paragraph also introduces questions which will be taken up soon in the book, about the possibility or probability of God, or some creator at any rate.

Nabokov rejects “environment” and “heredity,” the 20th centuries’ prime adversaries or ingredients in the scientific argument over human behavior, as the “exact instrument” that made him himself.   Instead he shifts to metaphor to explain his thought, the kind of thing only a unique human being can do.  The “exact instrument” is an “anonymous roller” which presses an identifying watermark into a piece of “foolscap” paper — Nabokov’s life.  And this identifying mark can only be seen by holding it up to a lamp, art.

So the metaphor here is, obviously, of creating and exposing a watermark.  The “roller” in this metaphor could refer either to the  person, as “anonymous” would lead you to believe, or the machine which imparts the watermark, the dandy roll.

As the video makes obvious, this happens when paper is still not what we think of as paper, but a slurry of ingredients.

The other half of the metaphor is the exposure of this “unique” mark to light.  Art is the lamp that exposes the unique qualities of any individual, not only to the world, but to the individual him- or herself.  (I think of Bulgakov, and wonder if this is an oil lamp, or an electric bulb, and if electric, if the lamp is properly shaded.)  “Foolscap” is a nice Nabokovian touch, the most provocative and allusive word possible.  It refers to a large, distinctly European paper size, and this is significant considering Nabokov’s migration from Europe to America and back to Europe.  But of course it also refers to the jester’s cap and bells — and the name for the paper refers to the watermark with this design.  And Nabokov thereby ends the section on a resounding note of ambiguity and ambivalence, for if life is a sheet of foolscap, perhaps looking for our individual significance will lead us only to see that there’s no significance but the laughter (in the light, this time) of that anonymous roller, what- or whoever it might be.

Paper Matters

August 27, 2009 § Leave a comment

Now reading: A Child Again, by Robert Coover.

I’m going to pick a nit today, because what good is having a blog if you can’t pick a nit now and then?

This is a McSweeney’s book, and as such a good deal of thought has been given to the book’s design: it’s a nice size, with cover art (no jacket, so hot right now, a trend started by McSweeney’s) that hearkens back to mid-century children’s literature.  There’s also a pocket on the back cover for a hypertext-y story on oversized playing cards.

So all I’m saying is, they put a lot of thought and effort into this book, as the folks there seem to do with most all of their productions.  As a matter of fact, I heard Eli Horowitz, publisher and managing editor for McSweeney’s, speak at a conference this summer, where he said in no uncertain terms that he feels that there has to be a reason to publish something in paper rather than online; that there has to be a reason to make a book of it.  The onus is now on the printed book, in other words, to justify its existence: by being beautiful, being cool, being interesting to look at and hold and read.

So what the hell’s up with the paper, here?  I am not a bibliographer; I am not a bibliophile of the kind that obsesses over the details of bookmaking materials (and yes, they are out there); I am not even all that picky, really, most of the time, when it comes to this sort of thing.  I read crappy paperbacks and books bound in library buckram all the time.  But the paper on which this book is printed is way too white.  Blindingly bright.  And there’s something about the feel of it, combined with the font (which seems to be the standard McS font, which I should know but do not — someone help me out here), which makes reading this book feel like reading a very nicely bound bundle of computer printouts.

Maybe it was just a mistake.  I don’t know.  Or maybe costs have to be cut somewhere when you’re paying for nice cover design and a pocket so Coover can have his crazy card-story.  Or — I wouldn’t put it by them — maybe McSweeney’s decided to include a wider variety of paper brightnesses and colors in their never-ending quest to invigorate American letters.  Whatever the case, it’s amazing how glaringly obvious an inappropriate book paper is.  A good paper, easy on the eyes, is one of those things you take for granted until it’s not there anymore.

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