Pale Fire (1962)

I have no doubt at all that I am Too Dumb for this book, nor did I go back and check/compare all the notes or anything. But I really liked this--it was fun to relish in the form of it, and it was very funny in the way Nabokov usually is. And as the story winds up, it really does suck you in and the narrative is so interesting and tight and self-involved and it's just a really good fun book that I would (and probably have to!) definitely return to for a number of rereads. ( )

The ending was kind of a let down, I already knew the twist, I doubt Nabokov planned it to be a surprise, but that's not the problem, it lacked something, maybe more emotion, I don't think it was necessary to make it so obvious that Botnik was in fact crazy and all the story was a sham, the specific recalling on how he convinced Gray to lie for example, I don't know, the way it was written it felt forced, like Nabokov really needed to drive the point home and it had to be right now and very clear so nobody gets confused, ok?

Taking that aside I really enjoyed the book, I loved Botnik's cluelessness about things like Sherlock Homes and biclycle-made luminiscates, he was so out of touch with the world, the way he needed to make everything about himself, many times just making a note to a word, not a verse, a word, that would tie nicely to whatever he wanted to say, he interpreted the poetry however it pleased him and had no interest at all really in Shade, just in the idea of him.

I also want to mention that even though there are references to secrets at the beginning I thought they were talking about him being gay or something like that, and in retrospect I can see that it was always about him being the king and I love that, there must be so many things like that that I can't recall now but rereading would surely make me notice.

I loved the book but still I couldn't recommend, except for someone that already likes Nabokov or this type of literature, it's a weird and resembles a puzzle at times and I greatly enjoyed it but it's not an easy read.

More seriously the book one for a kind, an entire novel told in the commentary of a poem, I doubt there are many writers out there that could pull something like this, and with such care, and so beautifully written, there is beauty in the poem, and in the footnotes and it's a very different kind of beauty, they don't sound alike at all, Nabokov didn't pour all he had on the commentary and that's that, no, the poem is also perfectly written, in a way that serves the purpose of the commentary but doesn't have to sacrifice anything and can still be read as a stand alone, the last canto is weak that's true but it's also a work in progress and this shows too, it's amazing. ( )

Such a unique, strange, mind-boggling puzzle of a book. You get sucked into the beautiful prose, and the unusual structure, and the disturbing events and characters - and you can't ever fully extricate yourself. I'm just not sure I have - actually, I'm quite certain I haven't - figured out everything that was going on. Far from it. It has so many patterns, so many possible interpretations - I'm dizzy just thinking about it. We're having a prolonged discussion about this book in my Paranoia as Hermeneutics course, and we've barely covered half of it by now. Vladimir Nabokov was a genius, that's all I'm certain of. ( )

Well, what a book.
First the poem (that I found hard to read because I find poetry in general hard or very hard to read).
Then the commentary section, in which the writer not only comments on the poem, but also elaborates on his country of origin, its kings, gives hints that Nabokov-readers will surely understand.
All in all I liked the poem more than the commentary section. But I'm afraid I'm not at all a Nabokov-fan, no matter how much of a literary genius he may be. ( )

Absolutamente genial. Es tan posmoderna y metaliteraria que cuesta creer que haya sido escrita en los 60s. Es perfecta.
Tanto me gustó que no consigo ser objetivo. Tal vez tenga que dejar que pase un tiempo antes de escribir una reseña más fría.
Por el momento solo puedo ponerme de rodillas y agradecerle al universo por el genio de Nabokov. ( )