Pale Fire

Nabokov's Pale Fire is an oddly structured novel that Jorge Luis Borges would have rendered in a few sentences, as when describing an imagined writer's oeuvre: "He produced a novel containing a 999 line poem in four cantos by a fictional poet, a kind of latter-day Robert Frost, as well as extended commentary by a supposed friend of the poet, who weaves his own, unrelated story into the commentary, and appears to be a madman. It is unclear whether the poet or commentator exist at all (in the world of the narrative), or if one is the invention of the other -- (the poet concocting his own biographer, or the madman dreaming up a poet, to give background to his ravings), or if both are the creation of a third, hidden character."

Careful reading and much scholastic debate seems to confirm that the final hypothesis laid out above is correct, or at least that the commentator (Professor Charles Kinbote) is fictitious. The poet (John Shade) may actually exist in the world of Pale Fire, but the commentator appears to be the invention of a third party, a view endorsed by Nabokov himself. (This raises the interesting question of whether or not we should consider an author's statements outside a piece canonical -- I would say no. I remember a Hemingway story where Hemingway states that a character would kill himself after the events depicted, but, like Kinbote, I'm currently working without a library.)

One of the blurbs on the back of my edition of Pale Fire describes the novel as a "centaur work", which I would disagree with -- while the long poem is clearly essential to the novel, it isn't very good; Shade's Pale Fire, while containing occasional jewels (such as lines 1-4)

I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I
Live on, flew on, in the reflected sky.

Is mostly written in conversational verse, much of it addressed to the poet's wife. Perhaps it's part of the joke that a man supposed to be second in stature to Frost among American poets would produce nearly 1000 quotidian lines, but calling this a centaur work is appropriate only if the horse is lame, or the man is mad.

Not that the novel isn't brilliant, because it is -- I read it as a satire of self-important academics, but regardless of Nabokov's intentions, it's pure absurdist fun. Kinbote's bitterness and defensiveness in the Foreword almost reveals his madness, but the slow, subtle progression of his deterioration is masterfully unfolded. Additionally, the Index following the Commentary allows for ease of reference from Note to Note, and reveals details not explicated in the text. While some early reviews criticized Pale Fire as incoherent, I can't agree. While flipping from poem to Commentary broke the verse's rhythm (Kinbote recommends buying two copies and mutilating both to allow for easier reading!), in the case of subpar verse and engaging commentary, I don't think that's cause to complain.