Impressions
As much as I loved Lolita, I have to admit, Despair has a horrible first impression. Nabokov comes in with a too-heavy hand, introducing the perspective of his protagonist–Hermann Karlovich–with all the finesse of a sledgehammer to fine china. The attempt at narrative flair is as confusing as it is off-putting, and I found myself struggling through that awkward, ham-fisted initial chapter.
However, once I reached the second chapter, where Nabokov allows the narrator’s personality to settle rather than intrude, and the story begins its comfortable introduction, I found myself gripped by the telling of it, unable to put the book down. Events flow easily, and Nabokov does an excellent job of fleshing out the lives of those closest to Karlovich: their depth is tempered by the self-centredness of the man describing them to us, but the reader can still catch glimpses.
There is, typical of Nabokov, an undercurrent of understated humour, as well; Karlovich’s insistence that his wife is besotted with him, only for her to be very clearly having an affair with a nearby neighbour by the name of Ardalion, and for her to be deeply unhappy by Karlovich’s lack of consideration for her personhood. Whether or not Karlovich knows this and remains ignorant by choice is unclear, rightly so – as Karlovich does not burden himself with considering the lives of others, the narration does not foist this burden on the reader.
In seeking out recommendations for this book myself, I have seen many noting that they were not surprised by the ending. I admit that I was not surprised, either. However, I do not believe surprise is a necessary foundation for a well-told story, nor does Nabokov intend for you to be surprised. Karlovich’s delusion is signposted as early as the second chapter, wherein he smugly remarks of his practiced habit of dissociation, making an effort to remove his “self” from his physical body in order to view himself in third person. His first encounter with Felix is riddled with confusion from Felix’s side, and Karlovich has small strikes of awareness where it becomes clear Felix does not resemble him in the slightest, only for this insight to be dismissed in favour of the alluring promise of being able to commit the perfect crime.
And the execution of all this is masterful, too. Despite Karlovich’s slow, clumsy start, Nabokov has a habit of ensnaring you with the insight of his prose, adding weight and believability to his viewpoint character. It might not be the most poetic, nor the most evocative, but he observes the world with a novel clarity punchy enough to make you wonder why you had never thought of it his way before. An ability to draw the reader in to accept the perspective of a man so abstracted from reality is Nabokov’s prime art.
Do I recommend this book?
Yes. Its core conceit may not offer anything new in substance to a modern reader, and the “twist” is easy to predict, but there is still something satisfying about seeing it play out as expected; with works like Lolita under his belt, Nabakov is rightly known as a master of the unreliable narrator, and that mastery is on display here. The story, appropriately short, escalates with a precise amount of tension to keep you hooked until he unveils the truth with a casual, final flourish.