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.