This morning I read this bittersweet story in the New York Times about the auctioning of Vladimir Nabokov’s personal effects by his son Dmitri. As Dmitri has no heirs, it was agreed before the elder Nabokov’s death that it would be best to sell the collection before the death of the younger Nabokov. Reading the story, with its descriptions of invented butterfly drawings for Nabokov’s wife Vera — “They have variegated colors, delicate artistry and fanciful names. Only on these pages appear the blue ‘Colias verae’ or the dark ‘Maculinea aurora Nab.'” — reminded me of how much I enjoyed reading Nabokov’s lyrical memoir, Speak, Memory, when I was in college. I read it for a class called Transatlantic Identities, taught by the dandyish Professor Tucker (who was most of all devoted to John Ruskin). We read a dozen or so memoirs penned over the last 150 years on either side of the Atlantic. Among these, Speak, Memory, was transcendent, inspiring an interest both in lepidoptery and Nabokov’s expressive prose. As I read the book, Nabokov, in my mind, was transformed from the scurrilous author of the scandalous Lolita to the quiet emigre with a fascination for butterflies, and whose expertise with these brightly- winged insects landed him the curatorship of the butterfly collection at the Museum of Comparative Zoology at Harvard. Now that these butterflies have been scattered throughout the world, one can only hope that the hands that now hold them will cherish the butterflies as much as the hands that created them.
Nabokov and His Butterflies
Reading Roberto Bolaño’s Final Wake-Up Call
If you’re trying to decide whether or not to read Bolaño’s 900-page opus, I can only say this: it must be read, but no shame to any person who cannot.
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Enemy of the State: A Tribute to Jamal Khashoggi
Writers, intellectuals, and journalists are not destined to be slaves or flatterers.
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“I Could Feel the Poverty”
In a workshop, my fellow writers had said the moment wasn’t believable because “we didn’t have that kind of poverty in the United States.”
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Remembering My Parents’ Bookshelf
Did I enjoy these books? Though they don’t interest me now, I think I did enjoy them then. I was accumulating my 10,000 hours of reading practice.
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A Hidden Corner for the Hardcore: The New Yorker’s Summer Flash Fiction Series
The best part about The New Yorker’s summer flash fiction series is that The New Yorker did a summer flash fiction series. The worst part about The New Yorker’s summer flash fiction series is that if you blinked you missed it.
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An Ode to Reading on Public Transit
In the past six months, I’ve finished 15 novels. My thoughts have since kaleidoscoped; my dreams have evolved; my concentration has slowly but surely fortified over time. I use social media less and less each day.
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Imani Josey Wants to Tell Black Girls’ Stories
I’m not sure how many other black girls are on the cover of YA fantasy book series, and I’m not sure how many lead their own stories as protagonists. But judging by Lee & Low’s annual research, the number is incredibly low.
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Don’t Talk About Your Book Until It’s Published
Am I writing a book now? That’s between me and my hypothetical manuscript. I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut, hunker down, and get to work.
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