Pnin

PNIN must surely be one of the most gentle, merry, sad, and clever books in the English language today. All of these marvelous characteristics rely, of course, on the ability of its creator to weave visual tapestries from his word-hoard, and a superb weaver he is indeed. Vladimir Nabokov is an artist who paints fascinating images for us, with words as his paint and a pen as his brush. That English is a second language for the Russian-born Nabokov merely increases our incredulity at his skill in manipulating it so adroitly with such apparent ease. In this one slim volume, readers will, on occasion, find a wry, sardonic grin spread across their faces at the description of the ubiquitous college campus, its students, its not-too-illustrious faculty and their pretensions, its too-efficient librarian, and the machinations of campus politics. They will smile with compassion at Timofey Pnin's efforts, never quite successful, to master the peculiarities of English, one chapter, for example, being devoted to his hosting a "house-heating" party. They will feel their protectiveness rise for this essentially good man who continually suffers the slings and arrows of cruel fortune. Analyses of PNIN speak of the instances of bathos in the book, but that word, to me, suggests an exaggeration of pathos so great that the reader is repulsed by its artificiality. I do not find Nabokov's writing to be that crude or "over the top." Rather, the pathos is almost understated. For instance, when he learns that his ex-wife's son, fathered by her second husband, is to visit him on college vacation, Pnin buys him a fine leather football (which we Americans would call a soccer ball), and we are treated to a bit of humor at the linguistic confusion in the store while still understanding that, in Pnin's eyes, this is a delightful gift for any young athletic man on campus. He is so proud of the gift that he removes the rumpled brown wrapping paper so that Victor's first sight of the ball will be of its excellent leather cover. In hopeful conversation between the station and Pnin's rented room, Pnin excitedly brings up the topic of football only to discover that Victor has no interest in the sport whatsoever. Finally at the rooming house, while Victor is yet engaged in pleasantries with the landlord, Pnin slips upstairs and opens the window. The magnificent leather soccer ball is consigned to the storm. Such sad conflicts are part and parcel of Pnin's life. The pleasure of meeting Victor is counterbalanced, at least in the reader's mind, by the disappointment of the failed gift. The pleasure of Pnin's marriage to Liza is offset by her obvious lack of commitment, to which Pnin seems oblivious, and her abandonment of him for Dr. Wind. The pleasure of having given a wonderful "house heating" party is supplanted by the despair of learning that he is to lose his job at the college. And so it goes from event to event-happiness is always offset by disappointment. Pnin is

The overwhelming success and notoriety of Lolita has sometimes had the unfortunate effect of obscuring some of Nabokov's other treasures. Pnin is one such gem, being his third English novel, fragments of which were published during the 50's in the New Yorker.It is the account of a Timofey Pnin, professor of Classical Russian Literature at Waindell College, a course failing year after year to garner deserved interest. The novel is a succession of carefully blended time morphs, the beginning and end forming a kind of cycle, wherein the reader is made privy to various comical blunders of Pnin's academic life, as well as his painful memories of an exiled Russian past, bloody revolutions and a war-torn Europe. Pnin is proud to have adopted America as a new home, being largely oblivious of his total incompetence in the English language and his role as the butt of many cruel and childish jokes, perpetrated by the rest of Waindell staff. He lives alone, with the pangs of unrequited love and a son whom he barely has the chance to see. Pnin is a charming character, capable of inspiring a spectrum of different emotions. Such is the plot on surface, deceptively simplistic, though having a complex clockwork running behind scenes. Things take a surprising turn when the narrator is revealed, and Nabokov himself (Mr.N) makes a bewildering appearance in his own book, inviting a complete re-interpretation of many key events. The careful reader will be left pondering the motifs of the squirrel, the identity of the novel's `Evil Maker' and the significance of Pnin's flashbacks. Some logical paradoxes are posed by the novel: there are puzzles to be worked out. The work is slender and as such is considered one of Nabokov's more accessible novels, which can be enjoyed on a few different levels. Vladimir Nabokov did rely on a number of his own experiences, being a professor throughout several colleges in the U.S. (Stanford, Cornell, Harvard), to poke a little fun at the mechanism of academic life, though unlike poor Pnin, he possessed an unmatched control and execution of the English language. Much of the novel's translucent beauty is captured so perfectly in Nabokov's prose that many sentences deserve to be re-read several times for full appreciation of what John Updike called the `ecstasy' effect that is evident in the late master's writing. "A score of small butterflies, all of one kind, were settled on a damp patch of sand, their wings erect and closed, showing their pale undersides with dark dots and tiny orange-rimmed peacock spots along the hindwing margins; one of Pnin's shed rubbers disturbed some of them and, revealing the celestial hue of their upper surface, they fluttered around like blue snowflakes before settling again." (Vladimir Nabokov, Pnin)In such thrilling undulations of verse will the memory of this novel preserve itself in the mind of its sensitive reader.

Nabokov is one of those authors you either connect with or don't, which is perhaps more a matter of taste than we would like to admit. His characters are bizarre, usually neurotic if not truly insane, yet almost always funny.Pnin is one of his finer creations: an inhibited academic, whose past is laced with pain and betrayals, he lives a little life from all appearences. Yet within him is a being of extraordinary sympathy and quirky intelligence, which floursihes under Nabokov's comic and tragic gaze. Only those who come to love him experience the treasure that lies within him, and as he is revealed to the reader, who can fall in love with him or not. Though very little occurs in this book in terms of plot, Pnin's existence takes on a kind of significance. THe reader comes to acccept his limitations while feeling such an acute ache of sympathy for him. Warmly recommended, but it isn't for everybody.

The only recommendation I had for this book was the ever-evolving readers' list that Random House is keeping on-line, which tallies the votes of what readers believe are the 100 best English language novels of the 20th Century. "Pnin" showed up near the bottom of the list, but with a respectable number of votes. Having always wanted to get past the Nabokov of "Lolita" fame, I took the plunge. What I found knocked my socks off. If you know ANY Russian intelligencia emigres, you know Timofei Pnin. Pnin is an unsubtle chucklehead with a heart of gold who manages to live a great deal of his life in an academic cocoon, as utterly clueless about how he is being arbitrarily protected by his dean as he is clueless about the comic effect he has on others. Doesn't sound promising? Believe me, Nabokov's deft brush turns this slender thread of an idea into a veritable War-and-Peace of an exercise in how we react to others in our life. Dare we laugh at others? We certainly laugh at Pnin. We howl. How dare we? I place this book among the top five percent of the many books I've read over the last five years.

Pnin is surely one of the most pathethic--and beloved--characters in modern literature. This novel is not "about" anything; rather it is a hilarious yet poignant study of a bumbling, lonely, eccentric professor of Russian literature--whose every attempt at a sentence in English is a painstaking struggle--at the fictional Waindell College. (Nabokov himself taught Russian Literature for years at Wellesley College). The novel is thoroughly engaging due to Nabokov's stylistic brilliance and his searing take on the vicious world of academia in this country. We pity Pnin, yet we adore him; he (and the novel) are unforgettable. I found myself re-reading most passages, astonished by Nabokov's inventiveness, his ability to depict the most mundane act as something truly beautiful and transcendent. The best novel I've read in a long time. I finished the book a week or so ago; already I miss Pnin. But I plan to visit him again soon.