Playboy [1964]

This   exchange   with   Alvin   Toffler    appeared    in Playboy  for  January,  1964. Great trouble was taken on both  sides  to  achieve  the   illusion   of   a   spontaneous conversation.  Actually,  my  contribution  as printed conforms meticulously to the answers, every word of which I had  written in  longhand before having them typed for submission to Toffler when he came to Montreux in mid-March, 1963. The  present  text takes  into  account the order of my interviewer's questions as well as the fact that a  couple  of  consecutive  pages  of  my typescript  were apparently lost in transit. Egreto perambis doribus!

     With the American publication of Lolita in 1958, your fame and fortune mushroomed  almost  overnight  from  high repute  among  the  literary cognoscenti-- which you bad enjoyed for more than 30 years-- to both acclaim and  abuse  as the  world-renowned  author of a sensational bestseller. In the aftermath of this cause  celebre,  do  you  ever  regret having written Lolita?

     On  the  contrary, I shudder retrospectively when I recall that there was a moment, in 1950, and again in 1951, when I was on the point of burning Humbert Humbert's little  black  diary. No,  I  shall  never  regret  Lolita.  She  was like the composition of a beautiful puzzle--  its  composition  and  its solution  at  the  same time, since one is a mirror view of the other, depending on the way you look. Of course she  completely eclipsed  my  other  works-- at least those I wrote in English: The Real Life of Sebastian  Knight,  Bend  Sinister,  my short  stories,  my  book of recollections; but I cannot grudge her this. There is a queer, tender charm  about  that  mythical nymphet.

     Though  many  readers and reviewers would disagree that her charm is tender, few would deny that it is queer-- so  much so that when director Stanley Kubrick proposed his plan to make a movie of Lolita, you were quoted as saying, "Of course they'll  have to change the plot. Perhaps they will make Lolita a dwarfess. Or they will make her 16 and Humbert 26.  "  Though you  finally  wrote  the screenplay yourself, several reviewers took  the  film  to  task  for  watering   down   the   central relationship. Were you satisfied with the final product?

     I  thought  the  movie was absolutely first-rate. The four main actors deserve the very highest praise. Sue Lyon  bringing that breakfast tray or childishly pulling on her sweater in the car--  these are moments of unforgettable acting and directing. The killing of Quilty is a masterpiece, and so is the death  of Mrs.  Haze.  I must point out, though, that I had nothing to do with the actual production. If I had, I might have insisted  on

stressing  certain things that were not stressed-- for example, the different motels at which they stayed. All I did was  write the  screenplay,  a preponderating portion of which was used by Kubrick. The "watering down," if any,  did  not  come  from  my aspergillum.

     Do  you  feel  that Lolita's twofold success has affected your life for the better or for the worse?

     I gave up teaching--  that's  about  all  in  the  way  of change.  Mind  you,  I loved teaching, I loved Cornell, I loved composing and delivering my lectures  on  Russian  writers  and European  great books. But around 60, and especially in winter, one begins to find hard the physical process of  teaching,  the getting  up  at  a fixed hour every other morning, the struggle with the snow in the driveway, the march through long corridors to the classroom, the effort of drawing on the blackboard a map of James Joyce's Dublin or the arrangement of the semi-sleeping car of the St. Petersburg-Moscow express in the  early  1870s-- without  an  understanding  of which neither Ulysses nor Anna Karenin, respectively, makes sense. For some reason my most vivid memories concern examinations.  Big  amphitheater in  Goldwin  Smith.  Exam  from  8  a.m.  to  10:30.  About 150 students--  unwashed,  unshaven  young  males  and   reasonably well-groomed  young  females.  A  general  sense  of tedium and disaster. Half-past  eight.  Little  coughs,  the  clearing  of nervous  throats,  coming  in  clusters  of  sound, rustling of pages. Some of the martyrs plunged in  meditation,  their  arms locked  behind  their heads. I meet a dull gaze directed at me, seeing in me w^ith  hope  and  hate  the  source  of  forbidden knowledge.  Girl  in  glasses  comes  up  to  my  desk  to ask:

"Professor Kafka, do you want us to say that . . . ? Or do  you want  us  to  answer  only the first part of the question?" The great fraternity of C-minus, backbone of the  nation,  steadily scribbling  on.  A  rustle arising simultaneously, the majority turning a page in their bluebooks, good teamwork.  The  shaking of  a cramped wrist, the failing ink, the deodorant that breaks down. When I catch eyes directed  at  me,  they  are  forthwith raised  to the ceiling in pious meditation. Windowpanes getting misty. Boys peeling off sweaters. Girls chewing  gum  in  rapid cadence. Ten minutes, five, three, time's up.

     Citing  in  Lolita  the same kind of acid-etched scene you've just described, many critics have called the  book a  masterful  satiric  social  commentary  on America. Are they right?

     Well, I can only repeat that I have neither the intent nor the temperament of a moral or social satirist. Whether  or  not critics think that in Lolita I am ridiculing human folly leaves me supremely indifferent. But I am annoyed when the glad news is spread that I am ridiculing America.

     But haven't you written yourself that there is "nothing more exhilarating than American Philistine vulgarity"?

     No, I did not say that. That phrase has been lifted out of context,  and,  like  a  round, deep-sea fish, has burst in the process. If you look up  my  little  after-piece,  "On  a  Book Entitled  Lolita,"  which I appended to the novel, you will see that what I really  said  was  that  in  regard  to  Philistine vulgarity--   which   I  do  feel  is  most  exhilarating--  no difference exists between American and European manners.  I  go on  to  say  that  a  proletarian  from  Chicago can be just as Philistine as an English duke.

     Many readers have concluded that the  Philistinism  you seem  to find the most exhilarating is that of America's sexual

mores.

     Sex as an institution, sex as a general notion, sex  as  a problem,  sex as a platitude-- all this is something I find too tedious for words. Let us skip sex.

     Have you ever been psychoanalyzed?  

     Have I been what?

     Subjected to psychoanalytical examination.

     Why, good God?

     In order to see how it is done. Some critics have  felt that   your   barbed   comments  about  the  fashionability  of Freudianism, as  practiced  by  American  analysts,  suggest  a contempt based upon familiarity.

     Bookish  familiarity  only.  The ordeal itself is much too silly and  disgusting  to  be  contemplated  even  as  a  joke. Freudism and all it has tainted with its grotesque implications and  methods  appears  to  me  to  be one of the vilest deceits practiced by people on themselves and on others.  I  reject  it utterly,  along with a few other medieval items still adored by the ignorant, the conventional, or the very sick.

     Speaking of the very sick, you suggested in  Lolita that  Humbert  Humbert's appetite for nymphets is the result of an unrequited childhood love affair; in Invitation to  a Beheading  you wrote about a 12-year-old girl, Emmie, who is erotically interested in a man twice her age; and  in  Bend Sinister your protagonist dreams that he is "surreptitiously enjoying  Mariette  (his maid) while she sat, wincing a little, in his lap during the rehearsal of a  play  in  which  she  was supposed  to  be  his  daughter. " Some critics, in poring over your works for clues to your personality, have pointed to  this recurrent  theme as evidence of an unwholesome preoccupation on your  part  with  the  subject  of  sexual  attraction  between pubescent girls and middle-aged men. Do you feel that there may be some truth in this charge?

     I  think  it  would  be more correct to say that had I not written Lolita, readers would not have  started  finding nymphets  in my other works and in their own households. I find it very amusing when a friendly, polite  person  says  to  me-- probably  just  in  order  to  be  friendly  and  polite-- "Mr. Naborkov,"  or  "Mr.  Nabahkov,"  or  "Mr.  Nabkov"   or   "Mr. Nabohkov,"  depending  on  his  linguistic abilities, "I have a little daughter who  is  a  regular  Lolita."  People  tend  to underestimate  the  power  of my imagination and my capacity of evolving serial selves in my writings.  And  then,  of  course, there   is   that   special   type   of  critic,  the  ferrety, human-interest  fiend,  the  jolly  vulgarian.   Someone,   for instance,  discovered  telltale  affinities  between  Humbert's boyhood romance on the Riviera and my own  recollections  about little Colette, with whom I built damp sand castles in Biarritz when  I was ten. Somber Humbert was, of course, thirteen and in the throes of a pretty extravagant sexual  excitement,  whereas my  own  romance with Colette had no trace of erotic desire and indeed was perfectly common-place and normal. And,  of  course, at  nine  and ten years of age, in that set, in those times, we knew nothing whatsoever about the false facts of life that  are imparted nowadays to infants by progressive parents.

     Why false?

     Because  the  imagination  of a small child-- especially a town child-- at once distorts, stylizes,  or  otherwise  alters the bizarre things he is told about the busy bee, which neither he nor his parents can distinguish from a bum-blebee, anyway.

     What  one  critic  has  termed  your  "almost obsessive attention to the phrasing, rhythm, cadence and  connotation  of words"  is  evident even in the selection of names for your own celebrated bee and bumblebee-- Lolita and Humbert Humbert.  How did they occur to you?

     For  my  nymphet I needed a diminutive with a lyrical lilt to it. One of the most limpid and luminous letters is "L".  The suffix  "-ita"  has  a  lot  of  Latin  tenderness,  and this I required  too.  Hence:  Lolita.  However,  it  should  not   be pronounced  as you and most Americans pronounce it: Low-lee-ta, with a heavy, clammy "L" and a long "o". No, the first syllable should be as in "lollipop", the "L" liquid  and  delicate,  the "lee"  not  too  sharp. Spaniards and Italians pronounce it, of course, with exactly the necessary note of archness and caress. Another consideration was the  welcome  murmur  of  its  source name, the fountain name: those roses and tears in "Dolores." My little  girl's  heartrending  fate had to be taken into account together with the cuteness and limpidity. Dolores also provided her  with  another,  plainer,  more  familiar   and   infantile diminutive:  Dolly,  which went nicely with the surname "Haze," where Irish mists blend with a German bunny-- 1 mean,  a  small German hare.

     You're  making  a word-playful reference, of course, to the German term for rabbit-- Hase. But what inspired you to dub Lolita's aging inamorato with such engaging  redundancy?

     That,  too,  was easy. The double rumble is, I think, very nasty, very suggestive. It is a  hateful  name  for  a  hateful person.  It  is  also  a  kingly  name,  and I did need a royal vibration for Humbert the Fierce and Humbert the Humble.  Lends itself  also  to a number of puns. And the execrable diminutive "Hum" is on a par, socially and emotionally, with "Lo," as  her mother calls her.

     Another  critic  has  written  of you that "the task of sifting and selecting just the right succession of  words  from that  multilingual memory, and of arranging their many-mirrored nuances into the proper  juxtapositions,  must  be  psychically exhausting  work.  "  Which  of  all your books, in this sense, would you say was the most difficult to write?

     Oh,  Lolita,  naturally.  I  lacked  the  necessary information--  that  was the initial difficulty. I did not know

any American 12-year-old girls, and I did not know  America;  I had  to  invent  America and Lolita. It had taken me some forty years to invent Russia and Western Europe, and now I was  faced by a similar task, with a lesser amount of time at my disposal. The  obtaining  of  such local ingredients as would allow me to inject average "reality" into  the  brew  of  individual  fancy proved,  at  fifty,  a  much more difficult process than it had been in the Europe of my youth.

     Though born in Russia, you have lived  and  worked  for many  years  in  America  as well as in Europe. Do you feel any strong sense of national identity?

     I am an American writer, born in Russia  and  educated  in England  where  I  studied  French  literature, before spending fifteen years in Germany. I came to America in 1940 and decided to become an American citizen, and make America my home. It  so happened  that  I  was  immediately exposed to the very best in America, to its rich intellectual life and  to  its  easygoing, good-natured   atmosphere.  I  immersed  myself  in  its  great libraries and its Grand Canyon. I worked in the laboratories of its zoological museums. I acquired more friends than I ever had in Europe, My books-- old  books  and  new  ones--  found  some admirable readers. I became as stout as Cortez-- mainly because I  quit  smoking  and  started to munch molasses candy instead, with the result that my weight went up from my usual 140  to  a monumental  and  cheerful  200.  In consequence, I am one-third American-- good American flesh keeping me warm and safe.

     You spent 20 years in America, and yet you never  owned a  home  or  had  a  really  settled  establishment there. Your friends report that you camped impermanently in motels, cabins, furnished apartments and the rented homes of professors away on leave. Did you feel so restless or so alien that  the  idea  of settling down anywhere disturbed you?

     The  main  reason,  the  background reason, is, I suppose, that nothing short of a replica of  my  childhood  surroundings would  have  satisfied  me.  I  would  never manage to match my memories   correctly--   so   why   trouble    with    hopeless approximations? Then there are some special considerations: for instance,  the  question  of  impetus,  the habit of impetus. I propelled  myself  out  of  Russia  so  vigorously,  with  such indignant force, that I have been rolling on and on ever since.

True,  I have rolled and lived to become that appetizing thing, a "full professor," but at heart I have always remained a  lean "visiting  lecturer."  The few times I said to myself anywhere: "Now, that's a  nice  spot  for  a  permanent  home,"  I  would immediately  hear  in  my  mind  the  thunder  of  an avalanche carrying away the hundreds of far places which I would  destroy by  the  very  act  of  settling  in one particular nook of the

earth. And finally, I don't much care for furniture, for tables and chairs and lamps and rugs and things-- perhaps  because  in my  opulent  childhood  I  was  taught  to  regard  with amused contempt any too-earnest attachment to material  wealth,  which is  why  I felt no regret and no bitterness when the Revolution abolished that wealth.

     You lived in Russia for twenty years,  in  West  Europe for  20  years,  and  in America for twenty years. But in 1960, after the success of Lolita, you  moved  to  France  and Switzerland and have not returned to the U. S. since. Does this mean,  despite  your self-identification as an American writer, that you consider your American period over?

     I am living in Switzerland for  purely  private  reasons-- family  reasons and certain professional ones too, such as some special research for a special book. I hope to return very soon to America-- back to its library stacks and mountain passes. An ideal arrangement would be an absolutely soundproofed  flat  in New York, on a top floor-- no feet walking above, no soft music anywhere--  and  a bungalow in the Southwest. Sometimes I think it might be fun to  adorn  a  university  again,  residing  and writing   there,   not  teaching,  or  at  least  not  teaching regularly.

     Meanwhile you remain secluded-- and somewhat sedentary, from all reports-- in your hotel suite. How do you  spend  your time?

     I  awake  around  seven  in  winter:  my alarm clock is an Alpine chough-- big, glossy, black thing with big yellow beak-- which visits the balcony and emits a  most  melodious  chuckle. For a while I lie in bed mentally revising and planning things. Around  eight:  shave,  breakfast,  enthroned  meditation,  and bath-- in that order. Then I  work  till  lunch  in  my  study, taking time out for a short stroll with my wife along the lake.

Practically  all  the  famous Russian writers of the nineteenth century have rambled here at one time  or  another.  Zhukovski, Gogol, Dostoevski, Tolstoy-- who courted the hotel chambermaids to  the  detriment  of his health-- and many Russian poets. But then, as much could be said of Nice or Rome.  We  lunch  around

one  p.m.,  and  I am back at my desk by half-past one and work steadily till half-past six. Then a stroll to a  newsstand  for the  English papers, and dinner at seven. No work after dinne.And bed around nine. I read till  half-past  eleven,  and  then tussle  with insomnia till one a.m. about twice a week I have a good, long nightmare with unpleasant characters imported from earlier  dreams,  appearing  in  more  or  less  iterative surroundings--    kaleidoscopic    arrangements    of    broken impressions,  fragments  of  day  thoughts,  and  irresponsible mechanical   images,  utterly  lacking  any  possible  Freudian implication  or  explication,  but  singularly  akin   to   the procession  of  changing  figures  that one usually sees on the inner palpebral screen when closing one's weary eyes.

     Funny that witch doctors and their patients have  never hit  on  that  simple  and absolutely satisfying explanation of dreaming. Is it true that you write standing up, and  that  you  write in longhand rather than on a typewriter?

     Yes. I never learned to type. I generally start the day at a lovely  old-fashioned  lectern  I have in my study. Later on, when I feel gravity nibbling at my calves, I settle down  in  a comfortable  armchair  alongside  an ordinary writing desk; and finally, when gravity begins climbing up my spine, I  lie  down on  a  couch  in  a  corner of my small study. It is a pleasant solar routine. But when I was young, in my twenties  and  early thirties,  I  would  often  stay  all  day  in bed, smoking and writing. Now  things  have  changed.  Horizontal  prose, vertical verse, and sedent scholia keep swapping qualifiers and spoiling the alliteration.

     Can  you  tell  us  something  more  about  the  actual creative process  involved  in  the  germination  of  a  book-- perhaps  by  reading  a few random notes for or excerpts from a work in progress?

     Certainly not. No  fetus  should  undergo  an  exploratory operation. But I can do something else. This box contains index cards  with  some  notes  I  made at various times more or less recently and discarded when writing Pale  Fire.  It's  a little  batch  of  rejects.  Help  yourself. "Selene, the moon. Selenginsk, an old town in Siberia: moon-rocket  town"  .  .  . "Berry:  the  black  knob  on  the bill of the mute swan" . . . "Dropworm: a small caterpillar hanging on a thread" . .  .  "In The  New  Bon Ton Magazine, volume five, 1820, page 312,

prostitutes are termed 'girls of the town' "... "Youth  dreams: forgot  pants;  old man dreams: forgot dentures" , . . "Student explains that when reading a novel he likes  to  skip  passages 'so as to get his own idea about the book and not be influenced by  the  author'".  .  .  "Naprapathy:  the ugliest word in the language."

     "And after rain, on beaded wires,  one  bird,  two  birds, three  birds,  and  none. Muddy tires, sun" . . . "Time without consciousness-- lower animal world; time  with  consciousness-- man;  consciousness without time-- some still higher state" . . . "We think not in words but in shadows of words. James Joyce's mistake in those otherwise mar-velous mental soliloquies of his consists in that he gives too much verbal body to thoughts" . . . "Parody of politeness: That inimitable  'Please'  --  'Please send  me  your beautiful-- ' which firms idiotically address to themselves in printed forms meant  for  people  ordering  their product." . . .

     "Naive,  nonstop,  peep-peep  twitter  of chicks in dismal crates late,  late  at  night,  on  a  desolate  frost-bedimmed station  platform" . . . "The tabloid headline TORSO KILLER MAY BEAT CHAIR might be translated: 'Celui qui tw an buste  peat bien battre une chaise" . . . "Newspaper vendor, handing me a  magazine  with my story: 1 see you made the slicks.' " "Snow falling, young father out with tiny child,  nose  like  a  pink cherry.  Why  does a parent immediately say something to his or her child if a stranger smiles at the latter? 'Sure,' said  the father  to  the  infant's  interrogatory gurgle, which had been going on for some time, and would have been left to  go  on  in the  quiet  falling  snow,  had  I  not smiled in passing". . . "Inter-columniation: dark-blue sky between two white  columns." .  .  . "Place-name in the Orkneys: Papilio" . . . "Not 1, too, lived in Arcadia,' but 'I,' says Death, even am  in  Arcadia'-- legend on a shepherd's tomb (Notes and Queries, June 13, 1868,  p. 561)" . . . "Marat collected butterflies" . . . "From the aesthetic point of  view,  the  tapeworm  is  certainly  an undesirable  boarder.  The gravid segments frequently crawl out of a person's anal canal, sometimes in chains,  and  have  been reported  a  source  of  social  embarrassment." (Ann. N. Y. Acad. Sci. 48:558).

     What  inspires  you  to   record   and   collect   such disconnected impressions and quotations?

     All  I  know  is that at a very early stage of the novel's development I get this urge to garner bits of straw and  fluff, and  eat  pebbles. Nobody will ever discover how clearly a bird visualizes, or if it visualizes at all, the future nest and the eggs in it. When I remember afterwards the force that  made  me jot  down  the correct names of things, or the inches and tints of things, even before I actually needed the information, I  am inclined to assume that what I call, for want of a better term, inspiration,  had been already at work, mutely pointing at this or that, having  me  accumulate  the  known  materials  for  an unknown  structure.  After  the  first shock of recognition-- a sudden sense of "this is what I'm going to write"--  the novel  starts to breed by itself; the process goes on solely in the mind, not on paper; and to be aware of  the  stage  it  has reached  at  any given moment, I do not have to be conscious of every exact phrase. I feel a kind  of  gentle  development,  an uncurling  inside,  and  I  know  that  the  details  are there already, that in fact I would see  them  plainly  if  I  looked closer,   if  I  stopped  the  machine  and  opened  its  inner compartment; but I prefer to wait until what is loosely  called inspiration has completed the task for me. There comes a moment

when  I  am  informed  from within that the entire structure is finished. All I have to do now is take it  down  in  pencil  or pen.  Since  this  entire  structure,  dimly illumined in one's mind, can be compared to a painting, and since you do not  have to work gradually from left to right for its proper perception, I  may  direct  my  flashlight  at  any part or particle of the picture when setting it down in writing.  I  do  not  begin  my novel  at  the beginning. I do not reach chapter three before I reach chapter four, I do not go dutifully from one page to  the next, in consecutive order; no, I pick out a bit here and a bit there,  till I have filled all the gaps on paper. This is why I like writing my stories and novels on  index  cards,  numbering them  later  when  the  whole  set  is  complete. Every card is rewritten many times. About three cards  make  one  typewritten page,  and  when  finally I feel that the conceived picture has been copied by me as faithfully as physically possible-- a  few vacant  lots  always remain, alas-- then I dictate the novel to my wife who types it out in triplicate.

     In  what  sense  do  you  copy  "the   conceived picture" of a novel?

     A  creative  writer  must study carefully the works of his  rivals, including the Almighty.  He  must  possess  the  inborn capacity  not  only of recombining but of re-creating the given world. In order to do this adequately, avoiding duplication  of labor,   the   artist   should  know  the  given  world. Imagination without knowledge leads no farther  than  the  back yard of primitive art, the child's scrawl on the fence, and the crank's  message  in  the market place. Art is never simple. To return to my lecturing days: I  automatically  gave  low  marks when  a student used the dreadful phrase "sincere and simple"-- "Flaubert writes with  a  style  which  is  always  simple  and sincere"--  under  the  impression  that  this was the greatest compliment payable to prose or poetry. When I struck the phrase out, which I did with such rage in my pencil that it ripped the paper, the student complained that this was what  teachers  had always  taught  him: "Art is simple, art is sincere." Someday I must trace this vulgar absurdity to its source. A schoolmarm in Ohio? A progressive ass in New York? Because, of course, art at its greatest is fantastically deceitful and complex.

     In terms of modern art,  critical  opinion  is  divided about the sincerity or deceitfulness, simplicity or complexity, of  contemporary  abstract  painting. What is your own opinion?

     I do not see any essential difference between abstract and primitive art. Both  are  simple  and  sincere.  Naturally,  we should  not  generalize  in these matters: it is the individual artist that counts. But if we accept for a moment  the  general notion  of  "modern  art,"  then we must admit that the trouble with it is that it is so commonplace, imitative, and  academic. Blurs  and blotches have merely replaced the mass prettiness of a hundred  years  ago,  pictures  of  Italian  girls,  handsome beggars,  romantic ruins, and so forth. But just as among those corny oils there might occur the work of a true artist  with  a richer  play  of  light and shade, with some original streak of violence or tenderness, so among  th"  corn  of  primitive  and abstract  art one may come across a flash of great talent. Only talent interests me in paintings and books. Not general  ideas,

but the individual contribution.

     A contribution to society?

     A work of art has no importance whatever to society. It is only important  to  the  individual,  and  only  the individual reader is important to me. I don't give a damn for  the  group, the community, the masses, and so forth. Although I do not care for  the  slogan  "art  for art's sake"-- because unfortunately such promoters of it as, for instance, Oscar Wilde and  various dainty poets, were in reality rank moralists and didacticists--

there can be no question that what makes a work of fiction safe from  larvae and rust is not its social importance but its art, only its art.

     What do you want to accomplish  or  leave  behind--  or should this be of no concern to the writer?

     Well, in this matter of accomplishment, of course, I don't have a 35-year plan or program, but I have a fair inkling of my literary  afterlife.  I  have sensed certain hints, I have felt the breeze of certain promises. No doubt there will be ups  and downs,  long  periods  of slump. With the Devil's connivance, I open a newspaper of 2063 and in some article on the books  page I  find:  "Nobody  reads  Nabokov  or  Fulmerford today." Awful question: Who is this unfortunate Fulmerford?

     While we're on the subject of self-appraisal,  what  do you  regard  as your principal failing as a writer-- apart from forgetability?

     Lack of spontaneity; the nuisance  of  parallel  thoughts, second  thoughts,  third  thoughts; inability to express myself properly in any language unless I compose every damned sentence in my bath, in my mind, at my desk.

     You're doing rather well at the moment, if we  may  say so.

     It's an illusion.

     Your  reply  might be taken as confirmation of critical comments that  you  are  "an  incorrigible  leg  puller,  "  "a mystificator, " and "a literary agent provocateur. " How do you view yourself?

     I think my favorite fact about myself is that I have never been dismayed  by a critic's bilge or bile, and have never once in my life asked or thanked a reviewer for a review. My  second favorite fact-- or shall I stop at one?

     No, please go on.

     The  fact  that  since  my  youth--  1  was 19 when I left Russia--  my  political  creed  has  remained  as   bleak   and changeless as an old gray rock. It is classical to the point of triteness.  Freedom  of  speech, freedom of thought, freedom of art. The social or economic structure of the ideal state is  of little  concern  to me. My desires are modest. Portraits of the head of the government should not exceed  a  postage  stamp  in

size.  No  torture  and  no executions. No music, except coming through earphones, or played in theaters.

     Why no music?

     I have no ear for music, a shortcoming I deplore bitterly. When I attend a concert-- which  happens  about  once  in  five years--   1   endeavor   gamely  to  follow  the  sequence  and relationship of sounds but cannot keep it up for  more  than  a few  minutes.  Visual  impressions,  reflections  of  hands  in lacquered wood, a diligent bald spot over a fiddle, these  take over,  and soon I am bored beyond measure by the motions of the musicians. My knowledge of music is very slight; and I  have  a special  reason  for finding my ignorance and inability so sad, so unjust: There is a wonderful singer in my  family--  my  own son.  His  great  gifts,  the  rare beauty of his bass, and the promise of a splendid career-- all this affects me deeply,  and

I  fee] a fool during a technical conversation among musicians. I am perfectly aware of the  many  parallels  between  the  art forms  of  music and those of literature, especially in matters of structure, but what can I do if  ear  and  brain  refuse  to cooperate? I have found a queer substitute for music in chess-- more exactly, in the composing of chess problems.

     Another   substitute,   surely,   has   been  your  own euphonious prose and poetry. As one of  few  authors  who  have written  with.  eloquence  in more than one language, how would you characterize the textural differences between  Russian  and English, in which you are regarded as equally facile?

     In  sheer  number  of  words,  English  is far richer than Russian. This is especially noticeable in nouns and adjectives. A very bothersome feature that Russian presents is the  dearth, vagueness, and clumsiness of technical terms.

     For example, the simple phrase "to park a car" comes out-- if translated   back   from  the  Russian--  as  "to  leave  an automobile standing for a long time." Russian, at least  polite Russian,  is more formal than polite English. Thus, the Russian word for "sexual"-- polovoy-- is slightly  indecent  and not  to  be  bandied  around. The same applies to Russian terms rendering various anatomical and biological  notions  that  are frequently and familiarly expressed in English conversation. On the  other  hand,  there are words rendering certain nuances of motion and gesture and emotion in which Russian excels. Thus by changing the head of a verb, for which one  may  have  a  dozen different  prefixes to choose from, one is able to make Russian express  extremely  fine  shades  of  duration  and  intensity. English  is,  syntactically,  an extremely flexible medium, but Russian can  be  given  even  more  subtle  twists  and  turns. Translating  Russian  into  English  is  a  little  easier than translating English into Russian,  and  10  times  easier  than translating English into French.

     You  have  said  you  will never write another novel in Russian. Why?

     During  the  great,  and  still  unsung,  era  of  Russian intellectual  expatriation--  roughly  between  1920 and 1940-- books written in Russian by emigre Russians  and  published  by emigre  firms  abroad were eagerly bought or borrowed by emigre readers but were absolutely banned in Soviet Russia-- as they still are (except in the case of a few dead  authors  such as  Kuprin  and  Bunin,  whose heavily censored works have been recently reprinted there), no matter the theme of the story  or poem.  An  emigre novel, published, say, in Paris and sold over all free Europe, might have, in those years, a  total  sale  of 1,000 or 2,000 copies-- that would be a best seller-- but every copy  would also pass from hand to hand and be read by at least 20 persons, and at least 50  annually  if  stocked  by  Russian lending  libraries, of which there were hundreds in West Europe alone. The era of expatriation can be said to have ended during World  War  II.  Old  writers  died,  Russian  publishers  also vanished,  and  worst  of  all, the general atmosphere of exile culture,  with  its  splendor,  and  vigor,  and  purity,   and reverberative force, dwindled to a sprinkle of Russian-language periodicals,  anemic  in  talent and provincial in tone. Now to take my own case: It was not the  financial  side  that  really mattered;  I  don't  think  my Russian writings ever brought me more than a few hundred dollars per year, and I am all for  the ivory tower, and for writing to please one reader alone-- one's own  self.  But  one  also  needs  some  reverberation,  if not response,  and  a  moderate  multiplication   of   one's   self throughout  a country or countries; and if there be nothing but a void around one's desk, one would expect it to be at least  a sonorous  void,  and not circumscribed by the walls of a padded cell. With the passing of years I grew less and less interested in Russia and more and more indifferent to  the  once-harrowing thought  that  my books would remain banned there as long as my contempt  for  the  police  state  and   political   oppression prevented  me  from entertaining the vaguest thought of return. No, I will not write another novel  in  Russian,  though  I  do allow  myself  a  very few short poems now and then. I wrote my last Russian novel a quarter of a century ago.  But  today,  in compensation,  in  a  spirit  of  justice to my little American

muse, I am doing something else. But perhaps I should not  talk about it at this early stage.

     Please do.

     Well,  it occurred to me one day-- while I was glancing at the  varicolored  spines  of  Lolita  translations  into languages  I do not read, such as Japanese, Finnish or Arabic-- that the list of  unavoidable  blunders  in  these  fifteen  or twenty  versions  would  probably  make, if collected, a fatter volume than any of them. I had checked the French  translation, which  was  basically  very  good  yet would have bristled with unavoidable errors had I not corrected them. But what  could  I do  with  Portuguese  or  Hebrew  or  Danish?  Then  I imagined something else. I imagined that in some distant future somebody might produce a Russian version of Lolita. I trained  my inner  telescope  upon  that  particular  point  in the distant future and I saw that every paragraph,  pock-marked  as  it  is with  pitfalls, could lend itself to hideous mistranslation. In the  hands  of  a  harmful  drudge,  the  Russian  version   of Lolita  would be entirely degraded and botched by vulgar paraphrases or blunders. So I decided to translate  it  myself. Up to now I have about sixty pages ready.

     Are you presently at work on any new project?

     Good  question,  as  they say on the lesser screen. I have just  finished  correcting  the  last  proofs  of  my  work  on Pushkin's  Eugene Onegin-- four fat little volumes which are to appear this year in the  Bollingen  Series;  the  actual translation of the poem occupies a small section of volume one. The  rest of the volume and volumes two, three and four contain copious notes on the subject. This opus owes  its  birth  to  a

casual  remark my wife made in 1950-- in response to my disgust with rhymed paraphrases of Eugene Onegin, every line  of which  I  had  to  revise  for  my  students--  "Why  don't you translate it yourself?" This is the result. It has  taken  some ten  years  of  labor.  The  index alone runs to 5,000 cards in three long shoe boxes; you see them over there on  that  shelf. My  translation  is,  of course, a literal one, a crib, a pony.

And to the fidelity of transposal I have sacrificed everything: elegance, euphony, clarity, good taste, modern usage, and  even grammar.

     In  view  of  these  admitted  flaws,  are  you looking forward to reading the reviews of the book?

     I really don't read reviews about myself with any  special eagerness  or attention unless they are masterpieces of wit and acumen-- which does happen now and then.  And  I  never  reread them,  though  my  wife  collects the stuff, and though maybe I shall use a spatter of the more hilarious  Lolita  items to write someday a brief history of the nymphet's tribulations. I  remember, however, quite vividly, certain attacks by Russian emigre critics who wrote about my first novels  30  years  ago; not  that  I  was  more  vulnerable  then,  but  my  memory was certainly more retentive and enterprising, and I was a reviewer myself. In the nineteen-twenties I was clawed at by  a  certain Mochulski  who  could  never  stomach  my utter indifference to organized mysticism, to religion, to the church--  any  church. There  were  other critics who could not forgive me for keeping aloof  from  literary   "movements,"   for   not   airing   the "angoisse"  that  they wanted poets to feel, and for not belonging to any of those groups of poets that held sessions of common inspiration in the back rooms of Parisian  cafes.  There was  also the amusing case of Georgiy lvanov, a good poet but a scurrilous critic. I never met him or his literary  wife  Irina Odoevtsev;  but  one day in the late nineteen-twenties or early nineteen-thirties, at a time when I  regularly  reviewed  books for  an  emigre  newspaper  in Berlin, she sent me from Paris a copy of a novel of hers with the wily  inscription  "Spasibo za  Korolya,  damn,  valeta"  (thanks  for  King, Queen, Knave)-- which I was free to understand  as  "Thanks for  writing  that book," but which might also provide her with the alibi: "Thanks for sending me your book,"  though  I  never sent  her  anything.  Her  book  proved  to be pitifully trite, and I said so  in  a  brief  and  nasty  review,  lvanov retaliated  with  a  grossly  personal  article about me and my stuff. The possibility of venting  or  distilling  friendly  or unfriendly feelings through the medium of literary criticism is what makes that art such a skewy one.

     You  have  been  quoted as saying: My pleasures are the most intense known to man: butterfly hunting and  writing.  Are they in any way comparable?

     No,  they  belong  essentially to quite different types of enjoyment. Neither is easy to describe to a person who has  not experienced  it, and each is so obvious to the one who has that a description would sound crude and redundant. In the  case  of butterfly hunting I think I can distinguish four main elements.

First, the hope of capturing-- or the actual capturing-- of the first  specimen  of  a  species unknown to science: this is the dream at the back of every lepidopterist's mind, whether he  be climbing  a  mountain in New Guinea or crossing a bog in Maine. Secondly, there is the capture of a very  rare  or  very  local butterfly--  things  you have gloated over in books, in obscure scientific reviews, on the splendid plates of famous works, and that you now see on the wing, in  their  natural  surroundings, among  plants  and  minerals  that  acquire  a mysterious magic through the intimate association with the rarities they produce and support, so that  a  given  landscape  lives  twice:  as  a delightful  wilderness  in  its own right and as the haunt of a certain butterfly or moth. Thirdly, there is  the  naturalist's interest  in  disentangling  the life histories of little-known insects, in learning about their habits and structure,  and  in determining  their position in the scheme of classification-- a scheme  which  can  be  sometimes  pleasurably  exploded  in  a dazzling  display  of  polemical fireworks when a new discovery upsets the old scheme and confounds its obtuse  champions.  And fourthly,  one should not ignore the element of sport, of luck, of brisk motion  and  robust  achievement,  of  an  ardent  and arduous  quest  ending  in  the  silky  triangle  of  a  folded butterfly lying on the palm of one's hand.

     What about the pleasures of writing?

     They correspond exactly to the pleasures of  reading,  the bliss, the felicity of a phrase is shared by writer and reader: by  the satisfied writer and the grateful reader, or-- which is the same thing-- by the artist grateful to the unknown force in his mind that has suggested a combination of images and by  the artistic reader whom this combination satisfies.

     Every good reader has enjoyed a few good books in his life so why  analyze  delights  that both sides know? I write mainly for artists,  fellow-artists  and  follow-artists.  However,  I could  never  explain  adequately  to  certain  students  in my literature classes, the aspects of good reading-- the fact that you read an artist's book not with your heart (the heart  is  a remarkably  stupid  reader), and not with your brain alone, but with your brain and spine. "Ladies and gentlemen, the tingle in

the spine really tells you what the author felt and wished  you to  feel."  I  wonder  if I shall ever measure again with happy hands the breadth of a lectern and plunge into my notes  before the sympathetic abyss of a college audience.

     What  is  your reaction to the mixed feelings vented by one critic in a review which characterized you as having a fine and original mind,  but  "not  much  trace  of  a  generalizing intellect,  "and  as  "the typical artist who distrusts ideas"?

     In  much  the   same   solemn   spirit,   certain   crusty lepidopterists  have  criticized my works on the classification of butterflies, accusing me of being  more  interested  in  the subspecies  and  the subgenus than in the genus and the family. This kind of attitude is a  matter  of  mental  temperament,  I suppose.  The middlebrow or the upper Philistine cannot get rid of the furtive feeling that a book, to be great, must  deal  in

great  ideas.  Oh, I know the type, the dreary type! He likes a good yarn spiced with social comment; he likes to recognize his own thoughts and throes in those of the  author;  he  wants  at least  one  of  the  characters  to  be the author's stooge. If American, he has a dash of Marxist blood, and if British, he is acutely and ridiculously class-conscious; he finds it  so  much easier  to  write  about  ideas  than  about words; he does not realize that perhaps the reason he does not find general  ideas in  a  particular  writer  is that the particular ideas of that writer have not yet become general.

     Dostoevski, who dealt  with  themes  accepted  by  most readers  as  universal  in  both  scope  and  significance,  is considered one of the  world's  great  authors.  Yet  you  have described  him as "a cheap sensationalist, clumsy and vulgar. " Why?

     Non-Russian readers do not realize two  things:  that  not all  Russians love Dostoevski as much as Americans do, and that most of those Russians who do, venerate him as a mystic and not as an artist. He was a prophet, a  claptrap  journalist  and  a slapdash comedian. I admit that some of his scenes, some of his tremendous,  farcical rows are extraordinarily amusing. But his sensitive murderers and  soulful  prostitutes  are  not  to  be endured for one moment-- by this reader anyway.

     Is  it  true  that you have called Hemingway and Conrad "writers of books for boys"?

     That's exactly what they are. Hemingway is  certainly  the better  of  the  two; he has at least a voice of his own and is responsible for that delightful, highly artistic  short  story, "The  Killers."  And the description of the iridescent fish and rhythmic urination in his famous fish story is  superb.  But  I cannot  abide  Conrad's  souvenir-shop style, bottled ships and shell necklaces of romanticist cliches. In neither of those two writers can I find anything that I would care to  have  written myself. In mentality and emotion, they are hopelessly juvenile, and  the  same  can  be said of some other beloved authors, the pets of  the  common  room,  the  consolation  and  support  of graduate  students,  such  as-- but some are still alive, and I hate to hurt living old boys while the dead ones  are  not  yet buried.

     What did you read when you were a boy?

     Between  the  ages of ten and fifteen in St. Petersburg, I must have read more fiction and poetry-- English,  Russian  and French--  than  in  any  other  five-year  period of my life. I relished especially the works of Wells, Poe,  Browning,  Keats, Flaubert,  Verlaine,  Rimbaud,  Chekhov, Tolstoy, and Alexander Blok. On another level, my heroes were the  Scarlet  Pimpernel, Phileas Fogg, and Sherlock Holmes. In other words, I was a  perfectly  normal  trilingual child in a family with a large library. At a later period, in Western Europe, between the ages of 20 and 40, my favorites were Housman, Rupert Brooke,  Norman Douglas,  Bergson,  Joyce,  Proust,  and  Pushkin. Of these top favorites, several-- Poe, Jules  Verne,  Emmuska  Orezy,  Conan Doyle,  and  Rupert  Brooke--  have lost the glamour and thrill they held for me. The others  remain  intact  and  by  now  are probably  beyond  change  as far as I am concerned. I was never exposed in the twenties and thirties, as so many of my  coevals have  been, to the poetry of the not quite first-rate Eliot and of definitely second-rate  Pound.  I  read  them  late  in  the season,  around 1945, in the guest room of an American friend's house, and not only remained completely  indifferent  to  them, but  could not understand why anybody should bother about them. But I suppose that they preserve  some  sentimental  value  for such readers as discovered them at an earlier age than I did.

     What are your reading habits today?

     Usually  I  read  several books at a time-- old books, new books, fiction, nonfiction,  verse,  anything--  and  when  the bedside  heap  of  a dozen volumes or so has dwindled to two or three, which generally happens  by  the  end  of  one  week,  I accumulate  another  pile.  There are some varieties of fiction that I never touch-- mystery stories,  for  instance,  which  I abhor,  and  historical  novels.  I  also  detest the so-called "powerful" novel-- full of commonplace obscenities and torrents of dialogue-- in fact, when  I  receive  a  new  novel  from  a hopeful  publisher-- "hoping that I like the hook as much as he does"-- 1 check first of all how much dialogue there is, and if it looks too abundant or too sustained, I shut the book with  a bang and ban it from my bed.

     Are   there  any  contemporary  authors  you  do  enjoy reading?

     I do have a few favorites-- for example, Robbe-Grillet and Borges.  How  freely  and  gratefully  one  breathes  in  their marvelous  labyrinths!  I  love  their lucidity of thought, the purity and poetry, the mirage in the mirror.

     Many critics feel that this description applies no less aptly to your own prose. To what extent do you feel that  prose and poetry intermingle as art forms?

     Except  that  I started earlier-- that's the answer to the first part of your question. As to the second: Well, poetry, of course, includes all creative writing; I have never  been  able to  see  any  generic  difference  between  poetry and artistic prose. As a matter of fact, I would be  inclined  to  define  a good poem of any length as a concentrate of good prose, with or without  the  addition of recurrent rhythm and rhyme. The magic of prosody may improve upon w^hat we call prose by bringing out the full flavor of meaning, but in plain prose there  are  also certain  rhythmic  patterns, the music of precise phrasing, the beat of thought rendered by recurrent  peculiarities  of  idiom and intonation. As in today's scientific classifications, there is  a  lot  of  overlapping  in our concept of poetry and prose today. The bamboo bridge between them is the metaphor.

     You have  also  written  that  poetry  represents  "the mysteries of the irrational perceived through rational words. " But  many feel that the "irrational" has little place in an age when the exact knowledge of science has begun to plumb the most profound mysteries of existence. Do you agree?

     This appearance is very deceptive. It  is  a  journalistic illusion.  In  point  of  fact,  the greater one's science, the deeper the sense of mystery. Moreover, I don't believe that any science  today  has  pierced  any  mystery.  We,  as  newspaper readers,  are  inclined  to call "science" the cleverness  of an electrician or a psychiatrist's mumbo jumbo. This, at best,  is applied  science,  and  one  of  the characteristics of applied science is that  yesterday's  neutron  or  today's  truth  dies tomorrow.  But  even  in  a  better sense of "science"-- as the study of visible and palpable nature, or  the  poetry  of  pure mathematics  and  pure  philosophy--  the  situation remains as hopeless as ever. We shall never know the origin  of  life,  or the  meaning  of  life, or the nature of space and time, or the nature of nature, or the nature of thought.

     Man's understanding of these mysteries is  embodied  in his  concept  of  a  Divine  Being. As a final question, do you  believe in God?

     To be quite candid-- and what I am going  to  say  now  is something  I  never  said  before,  and  I  hope  it provokes a salutary little chill-- I know  more  than  I  can  express  in words,  and  the  little  I  can  express  would  not have been expressed, had I not known more.

Theo kulichki