One thing that has struck me in
this class is that most readers, especially those who read with some aim of
literary analysis in mind, read for answers. We want to know what things mean
and why; we want the whole story. We need to not only understand the symbolism
in the text, but also to take it to the next level –to understand the context
of the work in an author’s life and why they chose to tell the story.
It’s a never-ending pursuit for
answers that is enough to drive a person mad. For instance, will we ever truly
know whether the actor Will Shakespeare wrote the plays bearing his name? Most
likely not. And yet, instead of merely enjoying the works and mining the text
for it’s own meaning, we hunt for “the truth.” Perhaps this is because of the
modern cult of the author—there’s a feeling that if you don’t know the creator,
you can’t fully understand the work (and in the world of social media where
authors can choose to divulge details about themselves to their followers it
only gets worse).
In a way, social media has made it
impossible for a novel or a series of books to ever truly end. Let’s take J.K.
Rowling as an example – she uses Twitter and her own online community
“Pottermore” to answer fan questions and share ever-more information about the
wizarding world she created. As a fan, it’s exciting and thrilling to always
have more material to dive into. However, it can also be overwhelming and
difficult to keep up with. How will a potential reader a century from now be
able to follow all these various threads of storytelling? Once the world and
responses to questions have swelled to a certain point, will it become
impossible to get all the “answers” as it were without making it your life’s
work? Or will people have to become more casual readers, content to enter the
world of the novel with an incomplete view at the end of it?
Truthfully, a good book probably
never has any final answers, but only many versions and possibilities available
to those willing to look. Part of the joy of reading and literature is arguing
about the meanings of things (and often, that meaning can be a very personal
experience).
On the flip side, Sterne and Nabakov are almost
mocking this need for answers. No matter how hard you work at it, it’s
inevitable that you’ll miss a reference or a clue somewhere along the way.
Sterne and Nabakov don’t intend for you to ever solve the puzzle—they want you
to keep coming back to it, desperate to put all the pieces together. Yet at the
same time, they’ve made it a near practical impossibility to do so. We’re meant
to recognize that Kinbote is an untrustworthy narrator and enough clues are
dropped for us to make assumptions about the possible reality of the situation.
Nabakov does not present us with any sort of final answer the way the author of
a pulp thriller might. He leaves a puzzle to be tackled again and again from
various angles. Similarly, Sterne leads readers to believe that we’ll be
getting the story of Tristram Shandy’s life. Then, he takes us on a journey that
diverges far and wide from that, leaving us with many unanswered questions about
Tristram.
It comes down to a matter of
preference – do you want a story that ties up all its loose ends neatly? Or
would you prefer something you have to return to numerous times, each time
gleaning a different reading of the text? This is where popular
reading often splits from literature as a concept. Is it right to value something more ambiguous over something with a neat ending merely because it promotes lengthier conversation?
If so, how should we
encourage more casual readers to engage with work that doesn’t have all the
answers? It’s something that Helen Vendler attempts to provide a plan of action
for in her essay, but even then there’s disagreement on whether that would be
effective for those not already predisposed to enjoying literary questioning.
For me, Sterne and Nabakov have
raised a lot of questions about why I read, what I expect from my reading, and
why I’m obsessed with finding all the answers and solving the puzzle. As a reader, I expect certain results from my reading experience, but I don't necessarily dislike it when those expectations are upended. Like most things in life, I suppose it's part of a process of learning to be ok with ambiguity.
"It’s a never-ending pursuit for answers that is enough to drive a person mad…"
ReplyDeleteA really suggestive phrase given our current narrator. Nabakov is a puzzle master, clearly. (He also was incredibly skilled at chess--note references to chess and chess problems throughout PF.) But your post, and his novel, bring up the interesting question of whether or not viewing literature as a puzzle is misguided. I say this because Kinbote, whose annotations encourage us to read Shade's poem in this way, is presented as an untrustworthy editor. So is the idea of literature as a puzzle itself a red herring, a dead end?
It does seem that Nabakov is purposely trying to suggest that viewing literature, in particular “Pale Fire,” as a puzzle is a red herring or dead end. For starters, there are no definitive conclusions we can draw from “Pale Fire,” and it has been the subject of much literary discussion and debate for nearly half a century.
ReplyDeleteNabakov’s own interjections in the text (albeit through the untrustworthy voice of Kinbote) decry this approach to over-analyzing literature to the point of abstraction. He delights in creating a puzzle for you to solve, with remarks like “another lunatic who imagines himself to be that king.” Yet, he never provides you with anything that would allow you to decisively solve the puzzle, and often (as exhibited in the index) uses circular logic to keep you on a wild goose chase.
Nabakov mocks those who read too much into a text (at least in a Freudian manner) when he cites another professor’s analysis and Kinbote wonders, “Do those clowns really believe what they teach?”
Though he finds some readings too extreme and laughable, I don’t think his attitude towards reading a text as a puzzle to be solved is entirely one of mockery. For Nabakov, there seems to be a sense that overly dissecting a work takes away the magic and sacredness of reading, and maybe partially erases the hand of some divine force in creating a great work. He (or Kinbote rather) says:
“We are absurdly accustomed to the miracle of a few written signs being able to contain immortal imagery, involutions of thought, new worlds with live people, speaking, weeping, laughing. We take it for granted so simply that in a sense, by the very act of brutish routine acceptance, we undo the work of the ages, the history of the gradual elaboration of poetical description and construction, from the treeman to Browning, from the caveman to Keats.
For Kinbote/Nabakov, the very act of reading and the process of interpreting new worlds, symbols, etc. through literature is the reward itself. Through the routine acceptance of literature and literature as puzzle, we attack the text in a more brutal fashion, rather than just letting it wash over us. With this passage, Nabakov seems to be hinting at an approach to reading that allows for a soaking in of literature and an appreciation of a text within its historical context/evolution rather than a dissection of its meaning. Rather poignantly, there’s a sense that the beauty of literature/language (and our brain’s very ability to read) should be appreciated for its own sake.
Nabakov creates an unsolvable puzzle to urge readers to read not for minute clues that add up to an answer, but to remind you to take the text at the beauty of its face value alone.