Vladimir Nabokov's masterpiece (get used to reading that on this site) Pale Fire is the latest installment of one of my bookclubs (which just may happen to be the only book club to which I belong, but I can allude to being well-rounded).
In short, it is a book I quickly disliked (during the introduction given by the narrator), seemingly just as quickly appreciated (during the read of the great poem), and slowly, after much battling through the fragmented, non-linear recap in the narrator's analysis and explanation to particular stanzas in the poem, loved.
For a lengthier analysis, I'll proceed with just about everything I want to say. Even before it was all over I marveled at the skill with which Nabokov weaves a complex web to tell a relatively simple plot. It's not a difficult concept: Soviet Russia takes over a fictitious empire, the exiled King escapes to the United States, living in hiding he chooses to pick an alias and a profession that is most likely to allow him to meet his favourite poet, the venerable John Shade. Whilst living near shade, he befriends him and regales him about a “King of Zembla” and his exploits, and spies as much as possible on John Shade's writing of a no-doubt crowning-achievement-worthy poem. But before the Gay King can finish his story and confide to Shade his secret and why he has chosen this name, this profession and this life, Shade is murdered.
The exile, now living as Charles Kinbote, Zemblan language professor at Wordsmith University in New Wye – which, as a bit of Googling might indicate, are artistic interpretations of Cornell in Ithaca – has the good fortune of editing John Shade's final poem. The poem is written in four cantos: the first regarding a brush with death and his brief time in the afterlife; the second regarding his family and his daughter's untimely yet not-so-mysterious unfortunate death; the third on his quest for more regarding his experience of the afterlife and the irony that produces; and finally concluding with a brilliant fourth canto about artistry and the tricks of writing and what an author does to hone his craft and what it all means to him. Really more of a take on Nabokov's artistry, one presumes.
Even though it seems I've given away every detail of the plot in “spoiler” like fashion, it must be said that this novel is too Nabokov to be spoiled by anyone merely telling you what it is about. The beauty of it is in how Nabokov weaves his webs, in how sarcastically he compliments people's noble quests, in how much he really dislikes those of the anti-intellectual variety.
He truly is a master of witty, sarcastic humour, and this book not only puts it on proud display, but works in some creative magic we didn't know we'd enjoy; such as fictitious but somehow accurate regions and cultures. We know that Zembla, as in King Charles II's empire, does not exist. Nor does his US destinations. But the way he works his escape, so daring and so similar to the Nabokov family's own escape, his friend's death so similar to Nabokov's father's death, and the idea that his crown, orb, scepter and jewels are still about and the location still known, makes it all seem as though we can consult a library's broad knowledge of world history to find out if this indeed mirrors what actually happened to the last King of Zembla (note: that's not the name of a shitty movie starring Forest Whitaker).
The magic is indeed not in the plot, but elsewhere. I honestly had no idea how fun it would be to read a book where the King, forced into an escape through an underground tunnel behind his wardrobe, forced to leave his crown, scepter, orb and jewels behind, forced to trudge through the forests without much more than a cloak and a farmer's daughter as his guide, only to eventually catch a plane to New York and begin his snobbish quest to impose his will to have a bona-fide writer tell his story. It's almost a mixing of genres, really, that gives this story its charm.
I can't find any other way to describe it other than to tell every one to try it out, and stick with it even after it seems like a pompous ass trying to narrate a poem that doesn't relate to him nearly as much as he believes and is likely outside his understanding.
And if you have read it, then cheers. To Gay Kings!
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