Perhaps Nabokov, who was
capable of uninhibited, uproarious laughter, would have enjoyed
some original details in the Joe Wright directed Anna
Karenina. My favorite moment was during
the race scene when Frou Frou, Vronsky holding on for dear
life, crashes into the orchestra
pit.
Jerry Katsell
On 4/28/2013 7:42 AM, Jansy wrote:
Carolyn Kunin: At the moment I can't recall
Pnin's first (Christian) name. Reminding me of that moment of
great suspense in Oscar Wilde's play, when Aunt Augusta "cawn't
recall what the General's christian name was" which of
course was the whole point of the comedy, The Importance of
Being Earnest.* Nor can I recall at the moment what our
author's attitude toward the great Irish comics was -- I'm sure
he was unaware of Somerville and Ross, but surely he had
something to say of the famous resident of Reading Gaol ... (the
other great Irish comic writer I was thinking of is of course
the great GBS -- what anglophile isn't aware of him?)
[ ] His name turned out to be, to everyone's delight except
Aunt Augusta's, that the General had indeed been christened Earnest.
But what his surname was, I'm sure I have no idea.
Eric Hyman: “But what his surname was, I'm
sure I have no idea.”: Moncrieff. (Yes, we are getting away
from VN, and I wouldn’t be surprised or disappointed if you
don’t post this.)
Jansy Mello: Your writing now
follows Nabokov's stride in a way and so does Carolyn's spray of
associations, inspite of their unexpected aims.
I'm glad that SES posted your reply to her query. Pnin
is Timofey. Saint Vladimir's day is on July 15. Nabokov
describes famous birthday parties, the most memorable are Ada's
picnics in Ardis. I don't remember VN's own childhood
festivities but I seem to recollect a cousin's when the kids
played hide and seek and forgot all about him. Rejection,
boredom and loneliness is also a part of any idyllic childhood,
its dark contours perhaps.
btw, inspite of innumerous inspired angles and photography,
or the play inside the play blending fictional reality and its
representation, I disliked enormously the recent production of
Anna Karenina, directed by Joe Wright. The real world of a
novelist, at least its intelligibility, gains consistency by
details (caress them) and I missed them all, inspite of all the
luxurious lamps and trinkets.
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