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Original Title:	Speak, Memory
ISBN:	0141183225 (ISBN13: 9780141183220)
Edition Language:	English
Characters:	Vladimir Nabokov

Speak, Memory

Vladimir Nabokov

Paperback | Pages: 255 pages

Rating: 4.19 | 11264 Users | 814 Reviews

Mention Of Books Speak, Memory

Title	:	Speak, Memory
Author	:	Vladimir Nabokov
Book Format	:	Paperback
Book Edition	:	Anniversary Edition
Pages	:	Pages: 255 pages
Published	:	October 2000 by Penguin (first published April 1951)
Categories	:	Nonfiction. Autobiography. Memoir. Biography. Classics. Cultural. Russia

Representaion In Pursuance Of Books Speak, Memory

From one of the 20th century's great writers comes one of the finest autobiographies of our time. Speak, Memory, first published in 1951 as Conclusive Evidence and then assiduously revised in 1966, is an elegant and rich evocation of Nabokov’s life and times, even as it offers incisive insights into his major works, including Lolita, Pnin, Despair, The Gift, The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, and The Luhzin Defense. One of the 20th century’s master prose stylists, Vladimir Nabokov was born in St. Petersburg in 1899. He studied French and Russian literature at Trinity College, Cambridge, then lived in Berlin and Paris, where he launched a brilliant literary career. In 1940 he moved to the United States, and achieved renown as a novelist, poet, critic, and translator. He taught literature at Wellesley, Stanford, Cornell, and Harvard. In 1961 he moved to Montreux, Switzerland, where he died in 1977.

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Ratings: 4.19 From 11264 Users | 814 Reviews

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Speak, Mnemosyne! Probably one of my favorite autobiographies to date (beaten only perhaps by the Education of Henry Adams). Realistically, it is 4.56 stars given the narrative gaps (most were written as individual pieces for Atlantic Monthly, the New Yorker and Harpers). The section on butterflies (Chapter 6), his Russian education (Chapter 9), and his portrait of his mother (Chapter 2) were absolutely AMAZING. Other chapters were just as good, and only a couple were less than what I hoped. It

Wow! This is one of the best memoirs I've ever read! Prior to this, top in my list were Frank McCourt's Angela's Ashes and Harry Bernstein's The Invisible Wall: A Love Story That Broke Barriers. Vladimir Nabokov's Speak, Memory neither has that sorry circumstance of being a born in dirt-poor Irish family nor being a witness to a tragic love story between two people of different religions. Rather, the young Nabokov was the eldest child of a rich political couple residing on a big house (with lots

I never knew this guy had synesthesia...Q:THE cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. (c)Q:Nature expects a full-grown man to accept the two black voids, fore and aft, as stolidly as he accepts the extraordinary visions in between. Imagination, the supreme delight of the immortal and the immature, should be limited. In order to enjoy life, we should not enjoy it too much. (c)Q:AS FAR back as I

Excelente, Nelson! Lembro-me de há coisa de três anos, num evento da Leya, o Lobo Antunes ter estado à conversa com o Eduardo Lourenço. Nisto, o

This is a beautifully evocative memoir, consisting of the personal recollections of Nabakov, recalling his childhood in Imperial Russia . Nabakov was born in 1899 to a family who were not only members of the aristocracy, but heavily involved in politics. His father was a liberal, who opposed the Tsar and, in fact, as his grandmother wryly pointed out, was working to bring down the way of life which would eventually see him exiled and virtually pennilessHowever, this is certainly not a memoir

Ho letto alcuni suoi romanzi (ma ora li rileggerò ) senza esserne proprio entusiasta, mai avrei immaginato che la sua biografia fosse così bella: pagine di poesia ! 10 stelle!

Remember Those EveningsReading tonight, he remembers those evenings, Walking together in the endless estates,Where the sun poured over shining green leaves. No hint of shades.Again in this room, with the screen-light hiding the night, Look back to those mountains where our walking sticks are hid; See him turn to the window, thinking his last Of faraway climes.Now nights come bringing only doubts, and the dead howl Of half-formed thoughts, in their windy dwelling Inside his mind, too full of easy