Pale fire

Recently finished a second reading of my favorite book, Pale Fire, by Vladimir Nabokov. Want to record a few thoughts. My first is to note that I wonder why I put up with this thing. Like a good friend who is sweet and difficult at the same time. I let it inside my mind, then it fingers every little thought, putting them back slightly out of place. This book amazes me and brings out some of my most delicate thinking, but also makes me doubt that I have a stable mind.

Nabokov seems to mock almost everything, almost everybody, almost. But in the middle of this unstoppable attack, there is an insight into decency and kindness. And nobody I've come across puts down words like this, like a master mosaicist selecting the exactly correct tile.

I'm looking at the First Vintage International edition, April 1989. First published in 1962.