In one of our earlier posts, “Savoring (Once Again) Alexander Pope,” we joined in (and enjoined) Pope’s sharp and funny skewering of the critic whose critical mastery consists in the easily-achieved expertise of alleging deficiencies in the contributions of others.
A defining feature of a brilliant observation (one that differentiates it from the banal, vapid, platitudinous) must be, if it is to warrant a glittering adjective, its seemingly effortless stimulation of refractions of itself, propelled by no more, or less, than our very attention to, and on, it. And so with Pope’s lyrical “An Essay on Criticism,” with sparks ignited by our gaze, and its flames and flakes altered, flickering – alternating versions of Pope’s expressions:
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critick’s Share;
Both must alike from Heav’n derive their Light,
These born to Judge, as well as those to Write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well.
Nabokov must rank, on any scale, a master of inversions, the ingrained habit of flipping the apparent and viewing two sides of an object at once, as if metaphor’s challenge to physics.
In his recent review of Nabokov’s letters to Vera, Michael Wood highlights Nabokov’s talent for the comic inversion. We start with Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Is the observation a fair characterization of families, or is the unstated proposition that unhappy families enrich dramatic plot more than do happy families? Having framed the point, Wood then segues to Nabokov’s comic and “perfectly serious” counter-suggestion: “All happy families are more or less dissimilar; all unhappy families are more or less alike.”
Unless awareness that we are in the hands of a master tips us off to the dramatic tension that will circulate through Wood’s review, we proceed (with mind open) along with Wood into his biographical excursions of the life of Nabokov. Restless curiosity sets in even as we remain confident that the excursions are a purposeful diversion, a diversion that (we can expect) will pivot and revert to the point of origin, where, upon arrival, we find conversion, we are enveloped in the peak, climactic, ephemeral dramatic tension. The moment passes as we take its measure, leaving us breathless as we appreciate the alterations in our point of view, and our refreshed and expanded understanding. All that remains, and all that we need, to restore our equilibrium is a worthy apercu, one that emerges organically from, and seals, the drama.
Wood does not leaving us wanting.
(See Michael Woods’ review of Nabokov’s Letters to Vera in the October 2014 edition of London Review of Books)