BOOKS
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taught us, of course, that there is no such thing as a happy family. All
happy families are alike; but no two individuals, much less famili es,
can be alike; therefore [therefore! ] there are no happy families." (64).
This innocent twaddl e res ts on the confusion of
alike
with
identical.
If
no two individuals could be
alike
there would be no basis for rational
thought.
On the list of Andrew's priorities, however, ra tional thought ranks
no higher than precision of di ction and syntax. He and Nabokov have
discussions on the latter topi c: "On the occasion of thi s particular
discussion we instructed each other, proceeding more gingerly than
testily, in the proper usage and feel of adverbs in English. I elected to be
vague but firm ... " (5). Deli ciously condescending toward Vladimir
Nabokov's lapses from correct English grammar, Andrew writes:
"There are brilliant riders who fumble a bit getting their (oot into the
stirrup. That is all there is to it. "
Andrew, to his credit, is at some pains to state exp li citly what we
can see plainly enough already: that Nabokov does not altogether
approve of him or his undertaking. The very opening words inform us
that Nabokov dislikes even the title.
(Nabokov: His Life in Part
pointlessly echoes the 1967 work,
Nabokov: His Life in Art.)
Nabokov
dislikes biographies, period, and Andrew, doing hi s Nabokov imita–
tion, writes: " I do not like biographies and in past years read very few
of them, though by now I can pretend
to
some expert knowl edge of the
sorry genre" (6). The Leon Edel who called thi s a work of art must have
found his impartiality severely tri ed by that line. But Andrew will keep
his title, of course, and explain s why in a passage that exemplifi es his
habit of larding his text with feeble mimi cry of Nabokov: "The titl e is
an admission and declaration of inconclusive ev idence [the original
title of Nabokov's autobiography being
Conclusive Evidence],
of
freedom from the fat of irrelevent fact , and tha t in itself could be
disturbing to a subject such as mine, who has been known to praise
biographies only for th eir documentation. But of these things not a
word was said that warm and dusky winter afternoon" (Sf). Nabokov is
a more or less constant kibitzer throughout the book and chimes in
often enough (in boldface type when his words are quoted directly )
to
mutter his disapprobation of what Andrew is writing at the moment:
"I hasten now (too slowly, thinks Nabokov) to leave thi s subject" (63).
Andrew introduces one of his speculations with the words, "There is
no doubt in my mind ... " and then tell s us, "Nabokov deni es this
[speculation] empha ti cally, indignantl y." Surely a normal mindmight
have entertained
some
doubt? But this is the mind of Andrew-
