One day with Vladimir

by novemberyankeecharlie

I currently have no electricity. No power whatsoever. I also have no internet. It’s like the early 18th century has come to haunt me as a reminder that my usual state of being is so privileged.

Three of my housemates agree that this situation is unacceptable for a $1400 a month apartment, one of my housemates (who regularly eats organic kale and calls “Starbucks”, “Starfucks”) thinks that we’re all learning a valuable lesson. That lesson is still lost on me and he refuses to explain it (likely because he has no idea what the said ‘lesson’ is or he is acting like my parents and hoping I stumble upon the answer by myself).

My landlord is yet to comment on our predicament.

*five minutes later*

I just checked the stove, we do have gas. Win! I can at least say that I won’t be at a loss for a cup of tea. I’m starting to feel like Michael J Fox in Back to the Future. I always wanted to meet Christopher Lloyd, fingers crossed.

*fifteen minutes later than the last five minutes*

The domino effect is occurring. I just realized that if we don’t have power then our fridge isn’t working. Disaster. I own one thing in that fridge, or I suppose six things. A six pack of beer. Great, now they’re warm. Ah well, this might be the apocalypse so I may as well crack one open. Mmm… warm beer, what a treat. I should probably throw out my housemates milk while I’m here.

*an hour later*

I decided to investigate my house, a scavenger hunt of sorts. I stumbled across a stack of books in the living room that I’ve never bothered to peruse (probably because I’ve been too busy enjoying electricity and the internet). One of them is Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita. I’ve always wanted to read it. I learnt from the blurb that he was born in St Petersburg, Russia in 1899 (90 years before I was born). He studied at Cambridge (impressive) and launched his career in Berlin and Paris (two of my favorite cities). Lolita was published in 1955 (the year my mum was born). All signs are leading me to give this guy a go. Not to mention that Vanity Fair cites that Lolita is “The only convincing love story of our century”.

I’ve opened the first page and it simply states ‘to Vera’. I wonder who Vera is? I’ll look it up later. Hopefully she’s Vladimir’s version of Edie Sedgwick to Andy Warhol. Edie is my idol.

*two hours later*

Halfway through Lolita and I’m in love with how Nabokov writes. he writes the way people should write. Like all books I love from other eras, I read them with a wistful look on my face, the writing isn’t just impressive, the language itself is beautiful. People don’t talk that way and they very rarely write that way anymore. I certainly don’t. I don’t think I’m actually capable of it. I remember when I was in year 10 studying English Literature, we were asked to write an extended chapter to Henry James’ Washington Square. It had to resemble the tone and language as best we could. For the first time in my life I received a B for an English subject.

That was ten years ago and I still think about it.

‘I am convinced, however, that in a certain magic and fateful way Lolita began with Annabel.
I also know that the shock of Annabel’s death consolidated the frustration of that nightmare summer, made of it a permanent obstacle to any further romance of my youth. The physical and spiritual had been blended in us with a perfection that must remain incomprehensible to this matter-of-fact, crude, standard brained youngsters of today. Long after her death I felt her thoughts floating through mine. Long before we met we had had the same dreams. We compared notes. We found strange affinities. The same June of the same year (1919) a stray canary had fluttered into her house and mine, in two widely separated countries. Oh, Lolita, had you loved me thus!’

See what I mean? Just beautiful.

You know what? My housemate was right, there is a lesson to be learnt here. Today I have read more and written more than I have in the past month. While my lack of faith borderlines on the abhorrent, today I feel blessed for not having the ultimate distraction, The Internet.

Now I’m off to find a ‘Starfucks’ so I can post this to the evil world we call cyberspace (or at least they called it that in 1998).

P.S. Turns out Vera was Vladimir’s wife. She translated and edited all his work. She was also his source of inspiration. When they first met she recited his poetry wearing a mask whilst they sat by a canal. I think I just found a new idol.