The Real Life of Sebastian Knight
As with other Nabokov books I have read, the narration has a complicated, almost disingenuous, feel. Is the half brother of Sebastian Knight, who purports to be writing this biography, really who he claims to be? It seems the structure and recitation can never quite be taken at face value and I can't decide if this feature is pleasing or actually a bit convoluted! Nabokov alludes to it through the character of the narrator himself having him say, “remember that what you are told is really threefold: shaped by the teller, reshaped by the listener, concealed from both by the dead man of the tale. Who is speaking of Sebastian Knight? Repeats that voice in my conscience. Who indeed? His best friend and his half-brother.” However, as the book continues we find scant evidence for his claims, especially that of being his best friend although it remains a possibility given Sebastian's apparent reclusiveness. Whatever the case, I felt split between regarding this device of dubious narration as an astute comment on the nature of testimony and credulity and feeling it was a slightly precious and repetitive trope. On balance, in this book, I found it an enjoyable and pleasing addition to the murky atmosphere of confusion and uncertainty. Nabokov appears to address precisely this aspect of his writing too when the narrator asks an unnamed, but well read, English business associate about his brother’s books:
“I asked him whether he had liked them. He said he had in a way, but the author seemed to him a terrible snob, intellectually, at least. Asked to explain, he added that Knight seemed to him to be constantly playing some game of his own invention, without telling his partners its rules. He said he preferred books that made one think, and Knight’s books didn’t – they left you puzzled and cross.” p209
It perfectly represents my own feelings about Nabokov’s writing when I am at my most exasperated with it. With the exception of the claim that he doesn’t make you think, which I find false. I’m assuming that this passage must refer to Nabokov’s own writing and criticism of it; such similarity could not be coincidence. I also feel like Nabokov enjoys the unexpected irreverence of his joke here. I certainly found it amusing to read.
Knight and his half brother don't seem to have a fantastically close relationship so one wonders about the unnamed brother's motivation for writing the biography. This issue is addressed, to some extent, by the existence of Knight's venal former agent; who has written an inaccurate, competing account of his life. However, once again, what reason do we have for believing one in preference to the other? Probably only the fact that one is presented by the main protagonist! Interestingly, this does seem to have quite a strong effect and probably shows some form of psychological hard-wiring toward credulity amongst people we "know" better.
The incident where the brother goes looking for the lover who caused his half brother to descend into depression is another case in point. She tricks him into thinking that her friend is the woman he seeks when in fact it is her. It seems that nothing is quite as it seems in this book, as in Pale Fire, and as a reader this is both disconcerting and intriguing. The narrators are always somewhat implacable and appear polyvalent but reveal only one or two of these layers, if that. I feel like saying this book was clearer than "Pale Fire" but then catch myself thinking that this may only be a superficial impression. What fecund acreage Nabokov must provide for the literary critics! However, as a reader, it is hard to shake the impression you’re missing out on a lot, allusions, references, intimations, and I don’t think this is a positive aspect of his writing. Perhaps it’s too obfuscatory and slightly elitist or perhaps I just feel inadequate because I can’t feel like I’ve fully comprehended it.
The accounts of Sebastian Knight's books given by his brother are another strange feature. Are these discarded ideas from Nabokov's own canon of novels? None of them were particularly memorable and, again, I was reminded of the poem in Pale Fire. What’s the status of these imagined artistic works? In one sense, I want to take them at face value as their authors are described as successful and critically acclaimed in both cases. However, we quickly return to the ever present problem of the reliability of the narrator and it is this unnerving confusion that makes it difficult to imagine they aren’t jokes, barbs or allusions. In one way, this open-endedness is refreshingly non-prescriptive but in another it seems a little indefinite, contrived or even pretentious. Whatever the case, I always find myself asking who the narrator is and whether or not we can trust his testimony. Besides the summaries of his novels offered by Knight’s half brother there may be some other autobiographical features in the novel. Nabokov shares some details with Sebastian Knight; an anglicised Russian who went to Cambridge, studied literature and writes in English rather than his mother tongue. Nabokov also had a younger brother, Sergei, only one year his junior, who is said to have had quite a similar personality. Indeed, tantalisingly, Sergei also studied literature at Cambridge, which immediately proposes parallels with the two literary brothers in this story. Certainly, the passages about the narrator’s visit to what he believes is his brother’s death bed have a heartfelt and fraternal quality. I’m certain some of this book was informed by Nabokov’s relationship with his brother and his experience of their identities; but I feel it’s too simplistic and speculative to read it as straightforward autobiography. There’s almost always an urge to draw links between an author’s life and his work and, to some extent, this is justified and useful. However, attempting to find direct counterpoints for all aspects of a novel in an author’s life seems a misplaced endeavour. I don’t think it’s a book about Sergei writing a biography of Vladimir after his death or anything like that. In fact, the narrator is referred to as “V” so it’s more natural to cast the author in the role of narrator. As Nabokov shows at the end of the book, he seems to prefer less facile interpretations!
As always, there is sparkling prose to enjoy regardless of what you make of the narrative structure and some of the scenes and dialogue are excellent. For example, the brother's interaction with the hotelier at the beginning of his search (Chapter 13). Or the chance meeting with the private detective on the train and his subsequent, extraordinary billing arrangements:
“‘Oh, wait a bit, Mr Silbermann, we’ve got to settle something. What do I owe you?’ ‘Yes, dat is correct,’ he said seating himself again. ‘Moment.’ He unscrewed his fountain-pen, jotted down a few figures, looked at them tapping his teeth with the holder: ‘Yes, sixty-eight francs.’ ‘Well, that’s not much,’ I said, ‘won’t you perhaps …’ ‘Wait,’ he cried, ‘dat is false. I have forgotten … do you guard dat notice-book dat I give, gave you?’ ‘Why, yes,’ I said, ‘in fact, I’ve begun using it. You see … I thought …’ ‘Den it is not sixty-eight,’ he said, rapidly revising his addition. ‘It is … It is only eighteen, because de book costs fifty. Eighteen francs in all. Travelling depenses …’ ‘But,’ I said, rather flabbergasted at his arithmetic … ‘No, dat’s now right,’ said Mr Silbermann. I found a twenty franc coin though I would have gladly given him a hundred times as much, if he had only let me. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I owe you now … Yes, dat’s right. Eighteen and two make twenty.’ He knitted his brows. ‘Yes, twenty. Dat’s yours.’ He put my coin on the table and was gone.” Chapter 14, p152.
Foreigners, their accents and the foibles of crosslinguistic interaction are nearly always described in excellent detail, undoubtedly informed by Nabokov’s multicultural life. The journey around Paris to search for the woman is very well described with lots of rich, amusing characters and dialogue (Chapters 15 & 16). The tone is redolent of a detective novel as the narrator visits the various ‘suspects’, assessing their plausibility as Sebastian’s lover and asking elliptical questions in an attempt to draw out further clues.
Above all, the hurried journey to see his brother and the incident where he sits in what he believes to be his half brothers room in hospital when he arrives are incredibly well written and evocative for me and, alone, could probably justify reading this book (Chapter 20). For some reason, this passage had a much more authentic and straightforward quality for me. I didn’t doubt the narrator’s testimony anywhere near as much as I did in rest of the book and I’m not quite sure why. This is certainly not to say I didn't enjoy the preceding chapters and, on the whole, this was an enjoyable read. The book ends philosophically and somewhat obscurely with a hint towards some key to understanding the meaning or purpose of life. The book ends with this intriguing passages on his relationship with his brother and their identities:
“Sebastian’s mask clings to my face, the likeness will not be washed off. I am Sebastian, or Sebastian is I, or perhaps we both are someone neither of us knows”.
The whole conclusion in the hospital finds the narrator gaining deeper understanding of, and reconciling, his love for his brother and the way their identities are intertwined. It would be easy to read this autobiographically if Nabokov’s brother was dead when he wrote this but the book’s publication precedes his brother’s death by 5 or 6 years. Nonetheless, the passage remains moving and mysterious. It feels like a fitting end to the narrator’s impassioned, but at times haphazard, attempt to write about his brother.
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