Despair

(Title purloined from Charles Baudelaire) "Despair" is structurally one of Nabokov's most conventional novels. It's the tale of the plotting, executing, and unraveling of a 'perfect crime' - in this version, a murder for insurance - and the bare plot could have been handled by any of dozens of mystery hacks. What lifts "Despair" to a higher state as literature is the implicit dialogue, psychological as well as verbal, between the murderous narrator and the reader. That Narrator, Hermann, is insufferable from the very first sentence: "If I were not perfectly sure of my power to write and of my marvelous ability to express ideas with the utmost grace and vividness..." But grace is hardly the hallmark of Hermann's style of narration; he's smug, parenthetical, digressive, and self-congratulatory throughout. Long before you the reader catch the spoor of Hermann's 'perfect' crime and escape - which turn out to be hopelessly imperfect and naive - you begin to despise the poor narcissistic bungler and to yearn for his come-uppance. What justifies Hermann's conception of his own marvelous writing talent is his allusive, evasive, condescending, snotty and snarky word-play, for which you will surely detest him... until you look in his mirror and see yourself, a person who delights in the snakiest word-play, who in fact is reading Nabokov precisely out of glee at such sophisticated verbosity. You! Dear Nabokov fan! If you attempted a 'perfect crime' wouldn't it be much like Hermann's? Would you be any less digressive and parenthetical? And wouldn't you also deceive yourself fatally? Mirrors appear often in "Despair", often enough for a literary critic to pounce on their significance. "Despair" is another of Nabokov's books about a look-alike double, a theme that occurs so regularly in his work that one might suspect a mental aberration, a variation of Capgras Syndrome in the author. Whether the 'double' - Felix, a hobo - is really a mirror-twin of the narrator in anyone else's eyes is a question deliberately left open for the reader. The real issue of doubles, however, is the implied similarity of the writer and the reader. Empathy with an insufferably egotistical murderer, by the by, seems more socially acceptable than empathy with a similarly insufferable middle-aged scholar who has a fetish for barely-pubescent girls. That's the lesson I draw from readers' responses to this novel compared with Lolita. No one, absolutely no one declares the the subject-matter of "Despair" is beyond the pale of empathy. Interesting... "Despair" is NOT one of Nabokov's incomparable triumphs. It ends rather predictably, formulaically. Its virtues are in its details of language, once the reader overcomes her/his aversion towards the narrator. And just for thrills, for bonus points as it were, Nabokov lets Hermann in Chapter Six spout the most irrefutable, ineffably snarky demonstration of the non-existence of God you'll ever read. There are numerous snippy asides in "De

Despair is probably not the first novel that comes to mind when thinking about Nabokov and his works and it may not even be among the top ten. But it is a Nabokov novel and that all by itself makes it worthy of our attention. Typically, it is a delight. Nabokov's forward tells us that it was originally written in Russian while he was living in Berlin in 1934. There was an early, clumsy translation to English; then, in 1965, the final one. Nabokov describes it this way: "The ecstatic love of a young writer for the old writer he will be some day is ambition in its purest form. The love is not reciprocated by the older man in his larger library, for even if he does recall with regret a naked palate and a rheumless eye, he has nothing but an impatient shrug for the bungling apprentice of his youth." The novel hasn't even started yet and already the reader finds a big grin crossing his face. It is written in the first person by a German businessman, who, while walking in an unpopulated area one day, comes across a hobo who, to his surprise, looks exactly like him. The plot has to do with a scheme our narrator concocts then implements to use this unusual resemblance for his own unscrupulous monetary gain. It would not be prudent to give away more. Though it is a rather familiar formula, let's just say that it is nevertheless very intriguing but ultimately logical in its surprisingly unsurprising denouement. As usual with the Nabokov novel there is a lot more going on than initially meets the eye. Our narrator, fascinated by his scheme and by his own perceived cleverness, views his plan as a work of art. He comments that all art and great art especially is based on deception. How hilarious it is to discover that his scheme ends in such a banal, predictable way and how clever that Nabokov seems to be poking a little fun at his own pretensions. No review of a Nabokov work would be complete without quoting at least a couple of passages as his use of the language is so exquisite. Here is our narrator describing the unpleasant landscape immediately prior to his fateful meeting with his doppelganger: "One could not leave the steps of the path, for it dug very deep into the incline; and on either side tree roots and scrags of rotting moss stuck out of its earthen walls like the broken springs of decrepit furniture in a house where a madman had dreadfully died." Wrenching, and structurally, the astute reader might also wonder whether it contains an element of foreshadowing. Here is a delightful aside: "Germans got their due [losing World War I] for that sealed train in which Bolshevism was tinned, and Lenin imported to Russia." A final example, after posting a letter that would put his plan into inexorable motion: "I felt what probably a purple red-veined thick maple leaf feels, during its slow flutter from branch to brook." It's Nabokov. What else is there to say?

-- So, so wonderful. If you haven't read the book description, I recommend you don't. The one-sentence description reveals something not revealed in the book until nearly its end. If you have read the description, don't worry - it doesn't detract anything. I recommend this book, particularly as a plot-driven, less ethereal read for those who prefer that side of Nabokov (not to say his stamp is missing). Also interesting is that it was written in the 1930's and much revised by Nabokov in the 1960's, in English, after a literal Russian-to-English translation by his son. So the historic value that I find so interesting in his early work is there, yet his skill-level is far higher than in the books of his I've read from the 20's and 30's. To me, this plot, a doppelganger/crime in Nabokov's hands, is an original -- the way it unfolds, its structure; its breadth of characters, concepts and details. Literature is blessed by Nabokov. And Despair, brilliant, is an "easy" read, a suspenseful, highly enjoyable book. Spoilers, if you haven't read other reviews: I love an unreliable narrator, and thought the pacing with which Hermann's credence becomes questionable was seamless. But what I want to say most is something Nabokov denies in his Foreward. However, having read some of the other Forewards from this reissue series, he had a clear disrespect for those who "need a Foreward to explain the book" [Quote from the Foreward of "The Defense"], so part of me thinks he's messing with us in his intros. In any event (intentional on VN's part or not), this is something I loved: the political implication of the main way Hermann's credibility is sketchy -- his likeness to another person. Hermann himself mentions the word Marxism very near the end, and when he ultimately concedes that he and Felix may look different, says, All people are really alike anyway. I thought about the book's entirety, the time in history it was written, and the ideology / social construct itself. As an American, at this time in history, I found this particularly powerful. Driving this politic home in "Despair" is their precise opposite lots: Hermann wealthy; Felix poor, a beggar, someone who goes to Hermann for money. The rich and the poor men, in Despair, are doubles, "alike in every way," Hermann writes. And now, I'll be quiet. Other people have written wonderful reviews that mention different great details of "Despair." Stellar work. Amazing characters, so well-drawn, as always.

This book was amazing. At first, upon reading it, I felt it was built around a silly premise... the finding of ones perfect identical double, at a perfect time when faking your own death is your mind's goal. But, as I went with it through the book, I found myself in the end truely amazed. I am so excited, that I am looking forward to reading it a second time very very soon, because I know that there was much I missed in only grasping the story the first time through.One of the truely greats feats is to be able to take something that is cliche and spin new meaning into it, make it feel fresh again.... this book does this and more, with an INCREDIBLE premise i had mistaken for silly at the begining... truely, the best for anyone who loves Nabokov's work... a true necessity for anyone who though he was just about lolita.

This book possesses something very rare: the ability to entertain as well as just about any Agathe Christie book along with a wildly rich variety of diction, intrigue, and (though the author denies it in his prologue) meaning. I have read it three times and each time I chuckle over some droll detail I missed on my last reading. Moreover, a great introduction to Nabokov: Ada and Pale Fire require much more cerebral work, and unlike Despair, don't lend themselves as easily to being happily re-read - something pretty much required if Nabokov can begin to be truly appreciated, as his stylings are difficult. A wild romp that will particularly be appreciated by worshippers of Dostoevsky and Pushkin, as critical extensions of some of their work are oddly offered (and strangely juxtaposed)as well. A solid, muscular masterpiece that makes much of Lolita look tame.