Although I haven’t read all of his works, Vladimir Nabokov is one of my personal favorite writers. I love Pale Fire and Lolita, but also like the less tricksy novels, like Laughter in the Dark. (Which was on Lost!) And for the past year(s) I’ve been planning on reading The Gift and Ada, or Ardor, both of which I’m even more excited to get to after reading about Lila Azam Zanganeh’s new book The Enchanter. From The Guardian:
In The Enchanter, Lila Azam Zanganeh attempts to create a new genre: the Bildungs-romance. The book details its author’s love affair with Nabokov, and tells how she learned to read books from his novels, using them as doorways to magical worlds.
Rather than attempt conventional biography or literary criticism, she portrays a series of encounters with moments from Nabokov’s biography – his last months in Switzerland, his childhood in Russia, his early love affairs. She invents an interview with “VN” about his years in the USA, and provides a whimsical anti-glossary for some of his flamboyantly obscure vocabulary.
All of this is interwoven with Zanganeh’s responses to Nabokov’s writing, particularly Ada, but also Lolita and Laura, with the theme of happiness always central. By this, Zanganeh explains, she does not mean “platitudinous happy characters”, but “deep joyousness”, “bliss”, or “ecstasy”. This is a feeling “connected to the edge, an experience of limits (in its quasi-mathematical sense of an open-end), which in turn becomes one of extreme poetry”.
Lila has moderated any number of French-literature related panels that I’ve attended, always coming off as quite brilliant and composed. (In my mind, her composure is in stark contrast to my shambolic attempts to run a panel. And since we usually go right after one another, her preparedness is even more accentuated . . . ) Which is another reason why I’m excited to get a copy of this. And why I’m excited she’s been getting so much attention for this book.
In addition to the above review, the Guardian also ran this interview:
Zanganeh’s love of Nabokov led her to want to write about him. Not surprisingly, given her academic background (before going to Harvard she studied at the Sorbonne and the École normale supérieure), her first thought was to write “something serious”. “But then I thought, wait a second, Nabokov hated didactic works. How could you say, ‘Listen people, Nabokov is a writer of happiness, so let me show you in a serious and well-constructed disquisition’? It would have been boring to death!” She was also put off by reading Nabokov critics, who are obsessed, she says, with questions surrounding the morality of his work. “But the whole point is that his work lies outside the realm of morals, beyond good and evil. He said in the afterword to Lolita that there is no moral in tow, that it is a magnificent game of chess with the reader.”
And then in The Daily Beast there’s a piece about how she met Dmitri Nabokov in order to get permission to quote from his father’s works in her book:
Dmitri himself, now 76 and looking uncannily like his father at about the same age, was seated in a wheelchair, at the head of the dining table. To his left was Ariane, a blond lady with an edgy sense of humor who turned out to be an old friend of Dmitri’s, and like him a former opera singer. Dmitri’s ice-blue eyes looked dazed and sleepy that night. Ever the gentleman, however, he announced that he, together with Ariane, had read and appreciated the first two chapters. The most conventional ones from a narrative standpoint, I immediately thought to myself, and felt my temperature drop. He had read only a fragment, and everything remained uncertain. I joined them at the table for a three-course meal, and tried to ease into a semblance of small talk. He could yet hate, and kill, the book I had worked on for the last several years. A moment later, Dmitri Nabokov looked up, smiled, and declared he had come up with a good idea. He was too exhausted to read the manuscript, he confessed, so would I kindly read it out loud to him over the span of the next few days? I glanced at Ariane, who nodded in agreement. [. . .]
As the days and nights unfolded, my heart often pounding, I read to Dmitri passages from Lolita, Ada, or Ardor, Speak, Memory, and countless short stories, but also imaginary interviews and fictional accounts of his father’s erotic life. The page at times elicited fierce reactions, even fits of anger (“Why, please tell me why you need to invent this? It almost sounds too close to home!”), but also moments of gentleness. His critical ear remained sharp throughout the reading. He not only critiqued and edited, but also corrected grammar (“Is it onto or unto?”), diction (“Vladimir and his mother would never ‘argue’ over a weak serve! Perhaps you meant ‘squabble’?”), and, most precious of all in my sense, pronunciation. Dmitri or I often picked up the dictionary to check British and American variations, and sometimes, to my relief, found we were both right, as in the case of “skein” (pronounced both “skeen” and “skeyn”). Dmitri also taught me to pronounce the names of butterflies (Ly’caeides Samue’lis), myriad plants, and the Latinate shades of many other words I had read and written but never said aloud.
Sounds like a fun experience, and an interesting book. If possible, we’ll run a full review of this in the not-too-distant future.
As I mentioned earlier, I participated in the Festival of New French Writing that took place in NYC a couple weeks back. It was a great festival, and I had every intention of writing up most of the panels . . . but, well.
Thankfully, freelance writer and audio engineer JK Fowler1 interviewed a couple of the French writers and put together some nice write-ups about two of the panels. These are available in full over at The Mantle, but JK offered to let us run long excerpts here as well. I thought I’d put these up in two posts so those who couldn’t attend could get a sense of the festival.
First up is the panel with Atiq Rahimi and Russell Banks, moderated Lila Azam Zanganeh. Most everyone knows of Russell Banks, but here’s a bit of info on Rahimi:
French-Afghan writer and filmmaker, Atiq Rahimi fled Afghanistan after the Soviet invasion and relocated to France. After studying at the Sorbonne, he joined a production company and made several documentaries for French television. He began writing in the late 1990s, with his first novel, Earth and Ashes (Other Press), written in Persian, becoming an instant bestseller in Europe and South America. The film version of Rahimi’s book has won 25 awards, including the Prix du Regard vers l’Avenir at the 2004 Cannes Film Festival. In 2008, Rahimi won the Prix Goncourt for Syngué Sabour (translated into English as The Patience Stone (Other Press)), his fourth book but first written in French. Rahimi returned to his native Afghanistan in 2002. As Senior Creative Advisor for that nation’s largest media group, Moby Group, he developed programs and genres for its various media outlets, and helped develop and train a new generation of Afghan filmmakers and directors. Rahimi is currently in pre-production of the film version of Syngué Sabour, which he will direct from his screenplay.
This was a pretty good panel—Rahimi has a very interesting life history, and Banks is pretty accustomed to presenting to crowds—but the most interesting part of the panel (in my opinion) was when a woman in the audience asked the two writers about writing “the other,” specifically how they construct their female characters. Here’s some of JK’s notes:
What does it mean to be deterritorialized as Deleuze writes of? To write from a different space for Banks, to re-think space-time. In traveling to Jamaica from his New England town at a young age, Banks began to see the world from the outside, noticed its ideologically-driven machinations, his work reflecting this gradual awakening. These deliberate movements, deliberate displacements etched the tales of morality when approaching the voices of the “Other” so present in his works. This search, this going-beyond oneself, the breaking of one’s comfort zone to explore the voice of the “Other” led him to realize our own, as Americans, identity of the exile, as outsiders embedded in a country to whom none of us belong. To Rahimi, this travel of the physical body forced encounters between his self as pre-developed and new logics, new forms of thinking about life. To travel then, to move is to breed an authenticity bred from unease. Zanganeh asks if Rahimi ever fears of being exoticized. In France, says Rahimi, he is Afghan. In Afghanistan, he is French. Forced to exile, he exists within the boundaries of no country.
“To exile or be exiled, upon the edge of the world looking in: this must be the acquired position of the writer.” (Russell Banks, Festival of New French Writing 2011)
To adopt the voice of the “Other” as problematic, Rahimi and Banks take divergent approaches. Banks underlines the importance of respecting difference, that he will not write that which he cannot hear being said to him. Writing, Banks states, “is a visual and auditory process of hallucination.” Through the approach that the semantic landscapes he builds are not reflections of the real world but the world of the possible, Rahimi sees no limits. Led by the question, “Is it true or is it not true?” Rahimi rides the imagination which allows him to move beyond the limits of a structured reality to the realm of the “could-be”.
Following this event, JK interviewed Rahimi for an hour. Here are a few highlight. First, about Afghanistan:
JK: I am interested too in more personal memories that you may have of the Afghanistan from your childhood versus the Afghanistan after the series of invasions. What changes did you see in people’s faces or in the spaces of Afghanistan?
AR: Ah, you know, this is going to be an anecdote but in 1980 I was a student and at this time I worked as a journalist on vacations for a magazine and I went to the North of Afghanistan alone. It was the beginning of war in Afghanistan and I was to make a report on the carbon mine in Afghanistan about the workers in this mine. And one day I had forgotten my camera in a local tea house. One week later, I came back and this guy said, “Oh, Mister!” I was a Mister for them, you know [laughter]. Maybe because of my blue eyes, etc. He told me that I had forgotten my camera here. It was one week later and he gave me my camera back. This explains the mentality of the people. This guy was poor. He was not a rich man because it was a very small tea house in the village and for them a camera was not very cheap and he could have taken it very easily but he wanted to give it to me. This is important for me, you know? But in 2002, after eighteen years of being away from Afghanistan, I went back. The first thing that I noticed was that the walls of each house were very high. The windows were all closed with brick and everybody would watch you with incertitude. Nobody talked with you.
JK: There were issues with trusting one another?
AR: Yes, there was no trust. They couldn’t believe in liberty, they couldn’t believe in those other things that I mentioned before. The second story I will tell you is that two years ago I was in a restaurant in Kabul and I had a sack with two cameras and everything else in it. I set it on the chair, had a drink, ate and 10 minutes later, my sack was gone! [laughter]
JK: A clear indication of the change, huh?
AR: You know, of course this is only anecdotal but for me it explains everything in this country, you know? Why? Because in thirty years of war, everything changed: the mentality and the confidence of people. Everybody had confidence before but no more. When you lose your confidence, you are afraid of everything, you don’t believe in everything, you know and you don’t have any confidence in yourself. And this is the beginning of the destruction of the culture, of identity; when you don’t believe in you, you don’t believe in your country, you don’t believe in your identity. So this was the big change: losing the identity and confidence in oneself. It’s very important and we do not have that now.
And then back to that whole “other”/writing from a woman’s p.o.v. thing:
JK: Now in The Patience Stone the woman is given voice and the man has his voice taken away. I want to ask you something (and I know that you have been asked this before) but do you ever ask yourself, “I wonder how I can give voice to a woman? Is that okay?”
AR: [Laughter] Well, first to give the voice to the woman, we had to paralyze the man [laughter]. This is the unfortunate thing. But in countries like Afghanistan, Iran, and other dictatorships, voice becomes very important. So in Europe or the United States, the question is “to be or not to be?” But in Afghanistan with a dictator, the question becomes, “to say or not to say?” Because the voice does not exist here. You cannot love your life and say things opposite to government opinion. And for me, to give voice to women we had to paralyze this patriarchal right from the beginning. And for this woman, it is very important to talk. As a writer, I know that words are very important. In the beginning it was the verb. I believe that because if you don’t have voice, if you cannot explain everything you do some things to express yourself and take what is bottled inside and let it outside. Why is there all of this violence in Afghanistan? Because we don’t have voice. This is a very human characteristic. When children cannot say things, they become very frustrated. And if we don’t talk we do violent things. To change the combat to debate, this is the voice.
JK: I guess what else I was trying to get at is that a lot of writers are criticized when they take the voice of the “Other”, someone they are not. Did you ever question whether it was okay to use the voice of a woman as a man? I picture the old man with the image of the woman in his mind and I am wondering what the difference is between that and writing in the voice of the woman?
AR: Ah! Well, in the beginning I wanted to be inside this man. I wanted to write about what this man thinks when his wife tells him everything because she is not a good character, Parwaneh. She tells him too much sometimes, you know? She tells him the children are not his, that every time he was not there she was sleeping around and betraying him. Why? Because she cannot express herself and if you do not have access to voice these types of things will happen. So I wanted to think about how, if I was a man and I had to listen to everything like this what it would be like but when I started writing I could not do it. I was possessed by this woman and every time I wrote the woman came inside of me and would enter my head, my heart and tell me that she wanted to talk about herself, not this man [laughter]. And because I don’t really like all the Afghan traditions, it was this woman that I wanted in Afghanistan. To be, to be present.
JK: What was the reception of The Patience Stone in Afghanistan? What did women say?
AR: Yeah, some women liked it very much and thanked me. One woman really did not like it and asked how I could present all Afghan women as prostitutes and all Afghan men as helpless or powerless. Impotent. And in Europe all the time people said they didn’t believe in this Afghan woman because Afghan women cannot be like her. But when you read Madame Bovary do you think to yourself that all French women are like this? Or if I see a film of Scorsese like Taxi Driver, can I say that all taxi drivers are like that? Every time we make our image the stereotype unfortunately. As if by talking about this Afghan woman, I am talking about all Afghan women. No, this is one case. One novel. But this is my hope.
Next up: Pascal Bruckner.
1 JK Fowler is a freelance writer and audio engineer currently living in Brooklyn, NY. He is a writer and audio engineer for The Mantle and maintains a site of flash and short fiction, poetry, and academic papers at JK Fowler.com as well as a compilation of past and in-process works, photography and audio interviews at Roaming Hills.
Upon completing Albertine Sarrazin’s Astragal I was left to wonder why it ever fell from print. Aside from the location, Astragal could pass as the great American novel. Its edginess and rawness capture the angst and desires we all had. . .
When my eyes first crossed the back cover of Fabio Genovesi’s novel Live Bait, I was caught by a blurb nestled between accolades, a few words from a reviewer for La Repubblica stating that the novel was, however magically, “[b]eyond. . .
“I preferred the war to the plague,” writes Curzio Malaparte in his 1949 novel, The Skin. He speaks of World War II and the destruction it has wrought on Italy, the city of Naples in particular. But the plague he. . .
With the steady rise of feminist scholarship and criticism in recent decades, it is little wonder that the work of Louise Labé should be attracting, as Richard Sieburth tells us in the Afterword to his translation, a “wide and thriving”. . .
In Conversations, we find ourselves again in the protagonist’s conscious and subconscious, which is mostly likely that of Mr. César Aira and consistent with prototypical Aira style. This style never fails because each time Aira is able to develop a. . .
You are not ashamed of what you do, but of what they see you do. Without realizing it, life can be an accumulation of secrets that permeates every last minute of our routine . . .
The narrative history of. . .
Literature in translation often comes with a certain pedigree. In this little corner of the world, with so few books making it into this comforting nook, it is often those of the highest quality that cross through, and attention is. . .