Customer Reviews

Gift (Penguin Modern Classics)

5 star:		(13)
4 star:		(4)
3 star:		(2)
2 star:		(4)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

I found this "coming of age in exile" novel of VN's to be an exhilirating, long read. The sensibilities developed in this final Russian novel of VN's are multi-layered and alternately opaque and transparent. Oftentimes this book appears to be going nowhere and then a passage appears that transports you into another of Nabokov's magical perspectives where human imagination informs the universe! I've enjoyed the pace of the text and found it to be a book worth savoring over an extended reading. Criticisms about the books apparent "plotlessness" are not based in any Nabokovian context. Careful reading, sirs and ladies, is the way to proceed. The reading is the thing! Take the gift as just that.

Nabokov is very funny(in case you didn't already know that) and no matter what his subject matter the humor comes through. That is one of the gifts here, the other more obvious one is literature, specifically Russian literature, the tradition of which is a gift the Russian born Nabokov received and in this book he gives you his version of that tradition in brief and since this book would be the last book he wrote in Russian one assumes he is paying a quite deliberate homage to his homelands men of letters. But Nabokov is never serious for long and the laughs are always right around the corner or on the next page. This book is also about lead character Fyodor's gift which is his talent and that talent appears in wonderful ways all through the narrative. This was written in Nabokov's middle period while he lived in Berlin,Germany writing in a small hotel room with family and those circumstances just makes this all the more incredible because it is a very beautiful book. Perhaps Nabokov was wondering what he would do with his gift at this most uncertain pre-WWII moment in his life. His great books were still to come but this book is his first to show that he is no ordinary artist and it at least equals if not surpasses the later books in regards to appeal because it is so personal, or at least as personal as Nabokov gets. You know you are in the hands of a master when you suddenly realize the chapter you are reading is a dream even though it is written in a way that does not immediately give that away and so you share the dreamers belief that the dreamed moment is real(what is a Russian novel without a dream). But again Nabokovs humor comes into play as the clue that this is in fact a dream is only subtley inserted into the chapter. After early disruptions and tragedy(his father was assasinated by Russian police)Nabokov led a charmed life, perhaps willed it to be so, and this book is marked with that charm and his word magicians wit which were to be his life sustaining strengths and his father from whom he received the precious gift seems to benevolently haunt the margins of these farewell to Russia pages. And butterfly hunting is one of the more beautiful ways to describe the artists pursuit.

This is an intense, nostalgic, non-linear novel. It's a rich treat for Nabokov fans. The first time I read it, I recall getting frustrated at the seeming plotlessness, yet there were certain scenes and passsages that I could never forget. I picked it up again a couple of years later, and absolutely fell in love with it. The Gift is, in some ways, Nabokov's take on Joyce-- a roaming perspective, an intellectual humor, an overall sense of character development. The end of the novel is ecstatic with the potential of life.

This is the last book Vladimir Nabokov wrote in what he called his `untrammelled, rich, and infinitely docile Russian tongue'. The story of Fyodor Konstantinovich Godunov-Cherdyntsev, a young Russian émigré aristocrat in Berlin, told in this novel is both a personal journey and a reflection of Russia's past. Nabokov provides a brief synopsis in his foreword:

`The plot of Chapter One centers in Fyodor's poems. Chapter Two is a surge toward Pushkin in Fyodor's literary progress and contains his attempt to describe his father's zoological explorations. Chapter Three shifts to Gogol, but its real hub is the love poem dedicated to Zina. Fyodor's book on Chernyshevsky, a spiral within a sonnet, takes care of Chapter Four. The last chapter combines all the preceding themes and adumbrates the book Fyodor dreams of writing someday: The Gift.'

I would need to read this book at least two more times to fully appreciate it. It is not a novel to be devoured quickly, it deserves to be savoured slowly. On this, my first read, I simply enjoyed Nabokov's use of language both as he describes Fyodor's progress and as he lampoons Nikolai Chernyshevsky (1828-1889) in the `spiral within a sonnet'. It's beautifully done, the way that Nabokov works a biography of Chernyshevsky into his novel, contrasting two quite different Russias but with some shared shortcomings.

`Existence is thus an eternal transformation of the future into the past - an essentially phantom process - a mere reflection of the material metamorphosis taking place within us.'
And when the novel ends, will Fyodor's success continue? Will he and Zina be happy? Or will his (and their) moment be brief, like the butterflies? We have seen Fyodor evolve for self-indulgent idleness to focussed observer: one of his roles in the book is complete; the other is neatly transferred to the reader. Or so I think, on this reading.

`Good-bye, my book!'

Jennifer Cameron-Smith

There an old cartoon that shows two scientists at a chalkboard filled with equations and in the middle is written "and then a miracle occurred," whereupon the other one says "I think this section in the middle needs work." I thought of this cartoon when reading The Gift because Fyodor/ Nabokov (this really is the most autobiographical of his novels) was incredibly alone in Berlin in the mid-1920s and then he meets Zina/ Vera and the miracle occurs. Not only is he no longer alone, but he has found someone who understands and accepts him absolutely and without reservation. The novel is a love letter to Zina/ Vera, among many other things.

The other reviews have objected to the inclusion of the Chernyshevsky biography. I would recommend reading up a bit on Chernyshevsky before starting the book. Even the Wikipedia entry should be enough. The point of the Chernyshevsky section is to contrast the lack of knowledge of the materialists (including Lenin, who was deeply influenced by Chernyshevsky, and the Bolsheviks) with the gentry tradition of Fyodor's father, who was a great naturalist. While Chernyshevsky said he was interested in the material world, he actually knew nothing about it and only managed to destroy and befoul what was around him. This indictment of Chernyshevsky is of course also an indictment of the Bolsheviks, which is noted in the novel, as the "work" was published by an anti-Soviet publisher. The part on Chernyshevsky says that he knew nothing of actual things and could only write about the relationship between things. This is quite insightful, actually. Once you understand this part, you can see why even such small things as Fyodor's naming of all the butterflies and other objects in the Grunewald forest is an important part of the novel. This section is actually funny if you've read a bit of Soviet writing on Chernyshevsky or even on Lenin, as Nabokov skewers it mercilessly.

In addition, this is a love story and the parts between Fyodor and Zina are really wonderful. This also contrasts to the total disarray of Chernyshevsky's relationships with women yet parallels the relationship between Fyodor's parents. The book is thus an argument for the demands and rewards of high culture and it makes no concessions to popular culture or demands for accessibility. If you have any interest at all in Nabokov, Russian literature, Russian emigres or Berlin, you really should read this book.

"Among the best prose stylists of our century..." goes the complement to Nabokov's fiction. You know what, he is still among the best prose stylists in this century, the 21st. A must read. Yea that sounds hackyneed by now. Too bad it has been wasted on less writers. Read this book. Don't buy into snobby readers advice, even Nabokov's own advice, so when you find yourself wanting to skip a few parts in the beginning do it... You'll come back to the very first sentence and reread ("all readers should be re-readers..." up until the point that made you say wow.

Nabokov, in his foreword, states that The Gift "is the last novel I wrote, or ever shall write, in Russian. Whether the author knew this as a certainty when he was writing this novel or if the conscious decision to eschew his native language for future literary endeavors came later, he, nevertheless, produced what would be his most "Russian" work. The beginning of the novel is a tip of the hat to Gogol's Dead Souls while the last paragraph is his homage to Pushkin's Eugene Onegin; and throughout the book there are references to Tolstoy, Turgenev, Dostoevsky (deridingly) and the literary favorite of Lenin, Nikolay Chernyshevski. Now, before the prospective reader throws up their hands and bemoans a lack of background in Russian literature for an excuse not to read this book, be assured. This is one of Nabokov's most uplifting novels and is essentially a love story; that it contains some of the author's best prose (in either Russian or English) only adds to the reading pleasure. And although there are obvious influences from Proust and Joyce (the circular format of the Chernyshevski chapter, for example), this is not, as Amazon reviewer David K. O'Hara remarked, "bloody Finnegan's Wake."

The Gift is the story of Fyodor Gudunov-Cherdyntsev, an emigre writer living in Berlin, and represents Nabokov's contribution to the "portrait of the artist" literary genre. In most of the works in this category much is said regarding the artist's angst, inspiration and triumphs but very little of the artist's actual writings are given for the reader's consideration. Not so with this book - the reader has the actual texts of the works at hand. Thus, we are able to read Fyodor's first published book of poetry (as well as the imagined critical responses) concerning his memories of life in Russia before the Revolution; an unpublished biography of his father, a famous naturalist, and his adventures in Asia as he undertakes expeditions to describe the fauna and flora of exotic lands, seemingly oblivious of the political upheaval taking place back home in Russia -- this section of the novel contains some of Nabokov's most beautiful writing. Finally, in an attempt to deal with what he sees as the mediocrity of Soviet letters and the stagnation of the emigre literary scene, Fyodor sets out to write a biography of the great pragmatist, confused socialist, and almost unreadable author, Nikolay Chernyshevski. That Chernyshevski was a particular favorite of Lenin and exerted enough influence that he was regarded as one of the "intellectual" catalysts for Lenin's activism and the subsequent Bolshevik revolution (and the reason, in the end, for Fyodor's emigre status) only made him grist for Fyodor's sardonic talents.

Although Nabokov enjoys getting into the head of his emigre protagonist, he is too shrewd a writer to simply give his readers a word by word transcription of Fyodor's literary efforts. Woven through the novel and connecting the literary efforts of Fyodor is the story of his love affair with Zina Mertz, a fellow emigre with whom he strikes up a clandestine relationship. She makes her appearance halfway through the novel (Fyodor hears her flush the toilet in the rooming house they share), but the careful reader will discover that she has been on the periphery of Fyodor's world from the first chapter. Several times they are almost brought together but some twist of fate keeps them in their separate orbits. It is only as Fyodor grows as an artist that he is ready for a relationship with Zina and the sharing of his emotions and intellect with her. It is through his love for Zina that Fyodor has the determination to re-examine his previous attempt at his biography of his father and, in so doing, sees the great book that was waiting for him to write: a book documenting his literary achievements and his love for Zina, a book which would be a gift in appreciation of all that life had granted him -- this very book that the reader holds in his hands.

Nabokov almost always discourages any attempts to see himself in the roles of the characters he invents, to "identify the designer with the design." But while Fyodor Godunov-Cherdyntsev might not be a manifestation of Nabokov, there is a similarity in the idea of this novel as a gift. Just a Fyodor offered his gift to Zina for the happiness she brought into his life, so did Nabokov dedicate The Gift to his wife, Vera, as a means of thankfulness that their marriage had survived a rocky period.

This book was very difficult to get through, yet I feel as if all of the effort was well worth it. I took the time to read it twice, as instructed by Nabokov himself, in order to fully capture in my mind the nuances of the novel. What struck me as most rewarding was the instances when I would pick up on these nuances and I almost felt a camaraderie with Nabokov. One part that really stood out for me was when the narrator, the main character, would speak about love, his sentences would almost imperceptibly become stanzas of rhyming poetry. When he spoke about his first love affair, and his love with Zina, the sentences would slip subtly into rhyme, one of many themes that weave in and out of Nabokov's master prose. It is at the moments when I pick up on these that I feel as if I am a little closer to understanding the genius that allowed Nabokov to be so egotistic about his work.

It is his genius that allows me to reccomend this book. The reward of reading and re-reading a work of such difficulty can seem slight, but in my opinion well worth the time and effort. Nabokov's sense of humor, his mastery of prose, his deeply intense knowledge of Russian authors, their styles, and their biographies all make this book something to cherish rather than to ignore and dismiss solely based upon the fact that it challenges the reader.

To be honest, this is one of the hardest books that I have ever read. While it is impossible to deny the genius of Nabokov, it is a genius that exalts itself at the expense of everyone else. The entire time that I was reading the book, I felt that I would never be able to match Nabokov intellectually on any level. Every time that I felt I was beginning to understand what he was trying to convey, something would shift, and I would again be lost. I enjoyed the book, however, and I would recommend it to others, on the basis of its incredible use of language. The Gift has a lyrical quality to it that allows the novel to stand independently of its ideas at times. One is tempted to read it just to hear the way the words flow. It is an immensely frustrating book to read, but in the end it is well worth it.

This is Nabokov's finest Russian novel. It contains his most detailed description of what he refers to in Speak, Memory as "cosmic synchronization". Also note the contrast between the epigraph of this book and that of Invitation to a Beheading.