Subject
The Art Spiegelman New Yorker cover (corrected text) (fwd)
Date
Body
EDITOR's NOTE. One of my more innocent pastimes used to be asking people,
especially Russians, about their "First Time" -- first time reading
Nabokov, that is. Below, Nabokophile Galya Korovina, owner of the New York
translation service "AmeRussia," provides an account of her first time
reading ADA, a reminiscence triggered by Art Spiegelman's NEW YORKER cover
for the issue containing the hitherto unpublished chapter of SPEAK,MEMORY.
------------------------------------------
From: Gkorovina@aol.com
The Art Spiegelman _New Yorker_ cover, December 28, 1988-January 4, 1999
I was surprised (just kidding) that neither Brian Boyd nor Andrew
Shaidlin checked the floor of the New Yorker production office to see what
had been cropped from the Art Spiegelman cover. In the original cover,
right by the western corner of the green beach towel, there must have been
some downhill skis and poles stuck into the snow, a pair of heavy boots,
and fashionable but warm ski wear for surviving the lift ride.
In Russia I spent several blissful ski seasons in a bikini, lying
on a beach towel spread out in a snowy glade surrounded by snow-capped
firs, a stone's throw from the Ai ("moon" in Kabardinian), a famous cafe
in the Cheget ridge of the Caucasus Mountains. To my mind, tromping to
the lift in huge boots and carrying, into the bargain, heavy
metal-reinforced skis, manufactured in fraternal socialist Poland and
brand-named accordingly "Metal," was reasonably sufficient exercise for
any given day in Cheget. After that ordeal I had earned my right to do
nothing but read and sunbathe. The place being Russia, almost every girl
who was mountain (Russian for "downhill") skiing-challenged like me, was
indeed reading a book rather than a magazine while sunbathing nearby.
Many of these Russian girls were Sue Lyon-pretty, only more so, thus I
assumed the snowman's hat flew up due to his supreme fascination with the
newest arrival, the Sue Lyonest of them all, rather than to any
consternation.
I remember especially vividly one particular skiing trip in 1972
or maybe 1973--the sun, the snow, and the air so amazingly fresh that it
seemed to arrive from the vastness of outer space--because I was reading
my first Nabokov in English: ADA, a paperback edition with a double
cover, the top cover being the flap intricately embossed and cut as butterfly
wings. A wife of a Soviet diplomat so highly placed that he was
unconcerned about his boxes being scrutinized by the authorities, offered
me my pick from the pile of books in English that she set aside as gifts.
I immediately noticed ADA: ADA by Vladimir Nabokov, whose two books in
Russian I had already managed to read, which was nothing short of a
miracle in a country where he was one of the most forbidden writers.
Vladimir Nabokov, whose poem in Russian, "Thank you, my land; for your
"remotest/Most cruel mist my thanks are due." would often come blissfully
to mind, out of the blue, after I saw it printed in a Soviet newspaper,
in an article that seemed to go unmentioned by Nabokov scholars but was
remarked upon wryly by Nabokov himself, as I learned many years later.
What does one do when something supernatural is just about to happen?
Struggling to keep my cool, I picked up ADA, fully expecting the
diplomat's wife to say, I'm so sorry, this precious book got into the gift
pile by horrendous mistake. Instead, she was visibly relieved that I
didn't choose any of the Harold Robbinses--a treasured possession then
among the Russians who read English and a highly valued exchange commodity
in a country where one obtained things through barter and connections.
The diplomat's wife proudly mentioned that this ADA was brand-new, never
opened, and just published. I was not able to find the description of
this edition in the bibliography of Nabokov's works by Michael Juliar;
however, in 1993 I again saw this book in my Moscow apartment. The
butterfly wing was slightly detached from the top cover, but as beautiful
as it was when I was reading this ADA in my bikini, on a beach towel
spread out in a park blanketed in snow. The book was, of course, wrapped
in the plain paper, but in my hotel room I used to unwrap it sometimes, to
look at that butterfly wing.
As to the seasonal preoccupation of the New Yorker covers
mentioned by Prof. Boyd, what could be more seasonal for the December 28,
1988-January 4, 1999 double issue than the New Year's holidays spent at a
skiing resort?
especially Russians, about their "First Time" -- first time reading
Nabokov, that is. Below, Nabokophile Galya Korovina, owner of the New York
translation service "AmeRussia," provides an account of her first time
reading ADA, a reminiscence triggered by Art Spiegelman's NEW YORKER cover
for the issue containing the hitherto unpublished chapter of SPEAK,MEMORY.
------------------------------------------
From: Gkorovina@aol.com
The Art Spiegelman _New Yorker_ cover, December 28, 1988-January 4, 1999
I was surprised (just kidding) that neither Brian Boyd nor Andrew
Shaidlin checked the floor of the New Yorker production office to see what
had been cropped from the Art Spiegelman cover. In the original cover,
right by the western corner of the green beach towel, there must have been
some downhill skis and poles stuck into the snow, a pair of heavy boots,
and fashionable but warm ski wear for surviving the lift ride.
In Russia I spent several blissful ski seasons in a bikini, lying
on a beach towel spread out in a snowy glade surrounded by snow-capped
firs, a stone's throw from the Ai ("moon" in Kabardinian), a famous cafe
in the Cheget ridge of the Caucasus Mountains. To my mind, tromping to
the lift in huge boots and carrying, into the bargain, heavy
metal-reinforced skis, manufactured in fraternal socialist Poland and
brand-named accordingly "Metal," was reasonably sufficient exercise for
any given day in Cheget. After that ordeal I had earned my right to do
nothing but read and sunbathe. The place being Russia, almost every girl
who was mountain (Russian for "downhill") skiing-challenged like me, was
indeed reading a book rather than a magazine while sunbathing nearby.
Many of these Russian girls were Sue Lyon-pretty, only more so, thus I
assumed the snowman's hat flew up due to his supreme fascination with the
newest arrival, the Sue Lyonest of them all, rather than to any
consternation.
I remember especially vividly one particular skiing trip in 1972
or maybe 1973--the sun, the snow, and the air so amazingly fresh that it
seemed to arrive from the vastness of outer space--because I was reading
my first Nabokov in English: ADA, a paperback edition with a double
cover, the top cover being the flap intricately embossed and cut as butterfly
wings. A wife of a Soviet diplomat so highly placed that he was
unconcerned about his boxes being scrutinized by the authorities, offered
me my pick from the pile of books in English that she set aside as gifts.
I immediately noticed ADA: ADA by Vladimir Nabokov, whose two books in
Russian I had already managed to read, which was nothing short of a
miracle in a country where he was one of the most forbidden writers.
Vladimir Nabokov, whose poem in Russian, "Thank you, my land; for your
"remotest/Most cruel mist my thanks are due." would often come blissfully
to mind, out of the blue, after I saw it printed in a Soviet newspaper,
in an article that seemed to go unmentioned by Nabokov scholars but was
remarked upon wryly by Nabokov himself, as I learned many years later.
What does one do when something supernatural is just about to happen?
Struggling to keep my cool, I picked up ADA, fully expecting the
diplomat's wife to say, I'm so sorry, this precious book got into the gift
pile by horrendous mistake. Instead, she was visibly relieved that I
didn't choose any of the Harold Robbinses--a treasured possession then
among the Russians who read English and a highly valued exchange commodity
in a country where one obtained things through barter and connections.
The diplomat's wife proudly mentioned that this ADA was brand-new, never
opened, and just published. I was not able to find the description of
this edition in the bibliography of Nabokov's works by Michael Juliar;
however, in 1993 I again saw this book in my Moscow apartment. The
butterfly wing was slightly detached from the top cover, but as beautiful
as it was when I was reading this ADA in my bikini, on a beach towel
spread out in a park blanketed in snow. The book was, of course, wrapped
in the plain paper, but in my hotel room I used to unwrap it sometimes, to
look at that butterfly wing.
As to the seasonal preoccupation of the New Yorker covers
mentioned by Prof. Boyd, what could be more seasonal for the December 28,
1988-January 4, 1999 double issue than the New Year's holidays spent at a
skiing resort?