Pnin by Vladimir Nabokov

Timofey Pnin is a Russian immigrant to America, with less than a firm grasp on the English language, who teaches Russian at a small college. The seven chapters of this book could all be self-contained short stories, but taken together they make up a life story of the adventures and misadventures of the hero, who is so brilliantly and lovingly portrayed that I forgot he was a character in a novel and wished he had been one of my professors.

Pnin is an intellectual but not a snob (he invites the college janitor to his party); a loyal lover (he befriends the precocious son of his ex-wife's second husband); an innocent amidst the intrigues and pettiness of academia (he fails even to realize that colleagues are ridiculing him for his poor grasp of Americanism). Always well intentioned and kind, he does the best he can to bungle along in a new environment, always longing for the Russia that once was.

Along with this, Nabokov manages to be very funny about the pitfalls of an immigrant, college politics, and just life in general. His satire is pointed, but gentle, without the bitterness that some satirists carry. And the writing is very poetic and wistful.

I especially loved this bit because I can wholly relate: "His life was a constant war with insensate objects that fell apart, or attacked him, or refused to function, or viciously got themselves lost as soon as they entered the sphere of his existence." Pnin and I have something in common.

Lately I have been reading some of the less well-known novels by writers who are celebrated for one "special" book. Sometimes I find pleasant surprises: I like Steinbeck's 'East of Eden' better than his more well-known 'The Grapes of Wrath.'
Sometimes I find that the less-well-known deserve to be so: nothing else I have read by Joseph Heller ('Catch 22') or F. Scott Fitzgerald ('The Great Gatsby') even approaches the masterwork.

Nabokov's masterwork is 'Lolita,' very creepy but one of the best books I have ever read. 'Pale Fire,' which I recently read, seems deliberately an intellectual exercise, devoid of emotional connection to the reader. 'Pnin,' by contrast, is emotional and, dare I say it, sweet. These three almost seemed to be written by different people, but, I can only assume, represent different facets of Nabokov's talent. And he is talented, no doubt about it. Recommended.