But I have found that this is no reason to admit defeat. In reading some of Lolita, one of his most well-known novels, I found myself stunned, awed, and confused for a good amount of the time. But this just means he requires slow, methodical reading. And it’s true, Nabokov is in no way a man you can speed through on a rainy Thursday evening, but he most certainly is a good companion to have on one.
This being said, however; I know that I don’t have the time to push through Lolita and imitate his style there, and frankly I don’t want to. The point of imitation is not to steal the idea of the author, but rather to try on the voice. I think of it as being in a costume shop, the walls lined with accessories, masks, and various assortments of recognizable identities. Perhaps a doctor here, a skeleton there, whatever suits your fancy. What I want to do is to go about this costume store and try on the outfits that I find entertaining or fascinating. I want to speak in the voice of another and see what words come out. As such, I don’t consider this copying in the strictest sense, though that is the purest form of flattery. What I want to do instead is be able to place a page I wrote beside a page of the author I’m imitating (Nabokov in this case) and leave the reader feeling satisfied that they are by the same person. No small task, I know. All this being said, I think I’ve gone on long enough about the concept behind this, so let’s get into the actual meat. I am going to include below a link to a story that Nabokov wrote for the reader to get a sense of what the man sounded like, and following that I will put my personal attempt. Enjoy and let me know what you thought in the comments. My AttemptI watched as her lashes gently kissed from across the table, eyes closing in a slow caress of pleasure. Her bright peach-colored lips parted so slightly, a sensual sigh of relief hanging from them like ripe fruit. We had come here for only our second evening together, but still the electric draw seemed to pulse through the wooden table between us, stirring such warmth in me until I could have sworn she were in my arms. It flickered within me like the low burning candle that lit her soft features a heavenly glow of honey-dipped alabaster; angles soft, shadows bright. Her upturned nose sat with the primness of aristocracy just above a wry smile which twisted its way affably across the unmarked sea of her blissfully benign face. We had chosen this cafe in the slender shade of fig and oak beneath the starry-eyed sky as a sort of escape. Long had the smoke-tinged thrum of the city’s voice grated upon our souls, which each seemed in turn to hum so gently in harmony from within chests so full of delight. Seeking some solace under the moonlight solstice, we had taken flight of our trappings and artificial day-bright lighting for the eye straining beauty of darkness encompassed by the ebbing glow of candles like the tide on a gentle eve. The color washed up gently, soaking her and I in its ambient glow before retreating to the tolerant tug of moon back down, soft shadows flooding back soundlessly into every corner. A bottle of wine sat beside us, cork penetrated to allow the dark-red fluid to pour into our cups, and from there to our bellies where it loosened our hearts until they felt free enough to float wistfully across the extensive table-filled void between us. The sweet-flecked darkness of alcohol swirled with her perfume -- a gentle mix of jasmine and plum -- tingling my nose with a touch so soft it seemed ethereal. What drew me to her was unclear frankly, hidden to me as the moon was behind the dark spider web eaves of fig trees. Perhaps it was her forwardness, the way her fierce azure eyes looked forward with such undeniable, thirsty strength, seeming to dare the world to defy her, waiting for a challenge to strike down with unwavering stare; the way her smile took her features to a startlingly sincere and ever so alluring sternness that all the while was playful as a tiger cub. Even the way I never knew what next lay crouching within her heart, waiting to pounce forth with agility so startlingly unpredictable I had trouble keeping up. Perhaps because she was an enigma, and I was in need of a puzzle. She seemed to me so rare a specimen, so dauntingly bold in the face of the world, undeniably brave that I, in my own weakness, my own predictability and tameness felt everything could be answered if only I held her next to me long enough. When she had agreed to meet me here, to see me again, my heart had leapt to my throat in such unadulterated joy that it had taken every nerve in my body to keep from weeping. But the days following that hand been spent restlessly. Wandering thoughts that could settle on nothing but her invaded my everything, like a butterfly who favors only the prettiest flower with its rainbow speckled wings. And what a pretty flower she was indeed! Too pretty, I began to fear, for me. What could she possibly see in anyone like me. The thought had crept in at night like a thief, stealing my joy and sleep. Tossing and turning had found me no solace nor solution, and so were the seeds of doubt planted firmly in my soul. Surely she would not come, she must have agreed simply out of niceness, out of fear of being rude. But she would not be there. She was nothing I could ever have. But still, the night had come when I had pleaded to see her again and I rushed eagerly through the day despite the mounting anxiety that pressed itself upon my heart until it was fit to burst. In my haste to waste the meaningless hours of light which day always seems to offer I moved as effortlessly as ever, through the clockworks of life, that my body moved itself and my mind was left to wander the streets as a wastrel. It scoured every corner and looked high and low, through crowded street and deserted alley, hoping to find any menial scrap of worth that it could wield against the dread that cloaked my heart. Somewhere in these streets there lay a truth I was missing, this I knew, but for all I was worth it eluded me as the cricket does on a warm summer’s eve. I could hear it but never could I spot it. So the day passed and the sun took its glimmering behind the monoliths of glass and steel, I felt the fear rising in me with the moon. Swallowing it as best I could, I began my hurried walk home. There was no reason to worry of what could be when there are so many possibilities. On my way through the streets, body and mind this time as one, I came across a splash of color by an old withered tree whose bark was wrinkled with age. There by the roots, in a small square of emerald greens protruded the dozen heads of flowers, each a multitude of colors bursting and glowing from some internal spark. I had walked this path many times before, after all it was nearly a block from my apartment, but for some incomprehensible reason these flowers had chosen to reveal themselves today. Perhaps this was the sign I had been hoping for. Stooping low I brought them in my hands and felt their velvet softness, breathed their opaque scent. It cut through the heady smell of city days and toiling hours, rushing cars and men, slicing cleanly away the smog coated film that hung about me and hurried me away to a silent place. Here the trees grew plentiful and at each of their roots clustered flowers and bushes, hugging close to the mahogany base of the parent tree. Grass grew plush all around, and for a second I could even feel it's tingling-tickling sensation brushing against my feet and swaying under hand. When a horn ripped me from this place of peace and comfort with the abruptness of a screeching car I fell back into reality with the grace of Lucifer. I looked at each head by my feet and chose carefully each one to pick, knowing that here lay the answer. But I needed more time, I needed the answers that lay dormant in these lilies or poppies or what other flowers might grow wildly in desert such as this. Soon I had a small bouquet grasped defensively in my hands, bright reds bleeding over muted yellows and steeled blues, green intertwined in contrast and with such fervor the painter must have simply splashed the colors on this canvas I now held. But despite this lack of structure, all these petals sung of something not so far off and of a feeling so alien it seemed to whisper its promises in languages never to be discovered. Flowers in hand and mind wandering once more, I wound my spring and allowed the cogs to take over and walk me the rest of the way to my apartment. Sounds and shapes ebbed around my conscious, but none could penetrate the wall to my acknowledgement. In short succession, or long, I arrived home. The door unlocked and swung creakily on aging hinges. Light poured in through the windows as the sun set in angry reds against the monotonous grays of building tops. I set the flowers down on the counter and moved to clean myself for the evening. This is where it stands so far. I plan to continue on this vein and I shall post the finished draft once I have come to the conclusion, however I’m afraid this particular well has run dry at this time for a bit. I apologize for the lack of pictures, however; I want the words to do the work both of telling the story and allowing you to envision it. As I said earlier, I would love to see any comments you may have on this and edits are accepted with open arms.
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Eric FoxWhen I'm not writing or reading, you can find me playing games or in an existential crisis. When I'm not doing those, I'm probably checking my email, so don't hesitate to reach out. ArchivesCategories
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