Beginning Pale Fire-- An Account of a somewhat Resistant Reader

After reading Lolita I must confess that I don't trust Nabokov. I know that with various words, phrases, structures, and such he is striking some unconscious chord in my skull and leading me around exactly where he wants me, like a bee on a string, or perhaps a butterfly... As I read the "Foreward" to Pale Fire I was confronted by a dilemma concerning one of the most fundamental issues that could possible be presented. How am I supposed to read this damn thing? On page 28 of the "Foreward" Charles Kinbote (undoubtedly one of Nabokov's PAWNS in leading me astray) confronts me with the way to read Pale Fire. "Although those notes, in conformity with custom, come after the poem, the reader is advised to consult them first and then study the poem with their help, rereading them of course as he goes through its text, and perhaps, after having done with the poem, consulting them a third time so as to complete the picture."

This concept of Nabokov composing his own notes is very, very scary. By composing the notes I feel like I will soon be stuck in a world of vertigo. I am entering a world where it is not the case of "the blind leading the blind" but a guide with 20/20 omniscient vision coupled with devious intent to mislead me to the heart of confusion and vertigo to guide me, the blind. What if God was a trickster? I can only imagine what it would have been like if Nabokov was actually Anthony Appell in Lolita composing all the annotations for that work. This structure makes me feel vulnerable. I have to rely on Nabokov for guidance through his own work because in the notes is where the story lies. I think that this structure must have put Nabokov over the edge with excitement at seeing the possibilities; the twists, the turns, the games to be played... However, for these same reasons that the structure makes me feel vulnerable it makes me feel empowered. I am supposed to be doing the things that Nabokov wants me to do. He is leaving it up to me to be his ideal reader-- his worthy opponent.

The more I read and reread and reread and reread Nabokov the more I become a resistant reader to his words, "truths", and suggestions. I realize that his writings are a game between him and the reader. An intimate game which, despite my attentiveness, he will always win. Each time he tells me something I cringe and wait for the page to come when he confronts what I believed and makes me feel the part of the fool. Nabokov, in his infinitely puzzlemaster self, isn't only constructing the voracious, attentive reader, he is also crafting the resistant reader-- an opponent whose toying with, leading on, and eventual defeat is a game, infinitely pleasurable even from the grave.