Details Books During The Gift

Original Title: Дар
ISBN: 0141185872 (ISBN13: 9780141185873)
Edition Language: English URL https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/57323/the-gift/9780141185873/
Characters: Fyodor Godunov-Cherdyntsev, Elizaveta Pavlovna, Zina Mertz
Setting: Berlin(Germany)
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The Gift Paperback | Pages: 406 pages
Rating: 4 | 3159 Users | 186 Reviews

Identify Based On Books The Gift

Title:The Gift
Author:Vladimir Nabokov
Book Format:Paperback
Book Edition:Special Edition
Pages:Pages: 406 pages
Published:April 5th 2001 by Penguin Books (first published 1938)
Categories:Fiction. Cultural. Russia. Literature. Russian Literature. Classics. Novels. 20th Century

Narrative In Pursuance Of Books The Gift

The Gift is the last of the novels Nabokov wrote in his native Russian and the crowning achievement of that period in his literary career.  It is also his ode to Russian literature, evoking the works of Pushkin, Gogol, and others in the course of its narrative:  the story of Fyodor Godunov-Cherdyntsev, an impoverished émigré poet living in Berlin, who dreams of the book he will someday write--a book very much like The Gift itself.

Rating Based On Books The Gift
Ratings: 4 From 3159 Users | 186 Reviews

Critique Based On Books The Gift
Half way through this novel, we come on a scene where Russian writer Nikolay Chernyshevsky smudges his old boots with ink to hide the scuff marks, and freshens up his bootlaces at the same time by dipping them into the ink pot. Then he carelessly drops one of the ink-soaked laces onto a page he'd just written. Its difficult to imagine that scene in an age when we rarely see an ink bottle, never mind dip anything into it. The ink we use today is safely sealed in cartridges, and more often

This book is incredibly quotable, so this post is going to be pretty disastrous. I liked this book a lot, but of course it was difficult (it was, after all, Nabokov). I love his writing, though, and I love the way his brain works, and I love that in parts of this book he was anticipating so many other masterful things, like Lolita and other plots that appear randomly. I love that he loves his art so much, and that love comes through with the main character, and so many others. And I loved that

The most difficult, I'm sure, of Nabokov's Russian novels. Certainly the most Russian of them. And second only to Ada or Ardor A Family Chronicle in his, er, oeuvre for both page count and complexity. And while I'm getting catagorical and even possibly (pardon my neologism) elistical, let me add that it is, in my opinion, his sweetest novel (one sugary step above Pnin). And before you cock a brow, Mr. Spock, the answer is no, I don't feel the slightest bit corny in writing that because I am a

This is my favorite Nabokov book. It's a melancholy story about exiled Russian nobles living in Berlin after the Revolution. The narrator is an exile who is also a novelist. Most of the book slips effortlessly between his childhood memories in Russia, his creative reveries, and his life in dreary Berlin. His thoghts eventually become so jumbles that it becomes impossible to tell what is real and what is memory. There is some remarkable writing here. One chapter begins with the narrator's vivid

Have you ever happened, reader, to feel that subtle sorrow of parting with an unloved abode? The heart does not break, as it does in parting with dear objects. The humid gaze does not wander around holding back a tear, as if it wished to carry away in it a trembling reflection of the abandoned spot; but in the best corner of our hearts we feel pity for the things which we did not bring to life with our breath, which we hardly noticed and are now leaving forever. This already dead inventory will

The Gift finds among its peers works such as In Search of Lost Time and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, or Dedalus' scenes in Ulysses (does the root of every novel since inexorably stretch back to Ulysses? I see it everywhere). It even feels like a sequel to Speak, Memory, though Nabokov is careful to dissociate himself from Godunov-Cherdyntsev. Yet the book is woven with Pushkin and Gogol and lepidoptera, musings on chess and time, the deceptive and imitative qualities of the natural

My goodness-gracious, this book is one hell of a monster.It is the ultimate Russian nesting doll of and about art, memory, satire, and "Art". If I wasn't already a huge fan of Nabokov, I probably would have thrown this book across the room. Nabokov wrote this novel as a tribute to his native language and is the last, and undeniably brilliant, of that period. It is a prime example of a supremely self-satisfied intellectual engorgement. Beautiful turns of phrase, rich and belligerent in its