When I first found out that Speak, Memory was an autobiography I heaved a huge sigh of disgust. The last autobiography that I read was by Ben Franklin and has made me hate him more than any man that has ever lived. His arrogance, contempt for anyone that he deems 'below' him and so called 'model' for the ideal citizen (last time I checked we didn't like it when our husbands cheated on us...) made me not only hate him with the fiery passion of one-thousand suns, but also vow to never pick up self-composed bio again. Now, knowing this, you can imagine exactly how I felt when I first encountered Speak, Memory.
Nabokov, being nothing like Ben in character or pen, is an artist. One that I not only feel better for having read, but also am glad that I did. Even under duress at the start, from the first lines "the cradle rocks above the abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness" I knew that this was going to be different (19). This novel was not an ode to himself, it was nod to everyone and everything that made him who he was. To all of the people in his life that helped him through this "eternity of darkness", and all of the people that hindered him. It was not a 'how to be a better person' step-by-step instruction guide, it was a 'this is the person I am, so deal with it' manifesto. And luckily for the reader, he was a pretty awesome guy.
Vladimir Nabokov was a poet both in word and phrase and guided you through his labyrinthine life with ease and wonder, leaving you begging for more. And, thanks to Sexson, more we will get.
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