Pnin

A little while ago I put down a novel and picked up Pnin, by Vladimir Nabokov. At first, I was riveted by it. Then, reading it made me feel, what's the word--small. Like I shouldn't try to write anything, not even on the blog, because I probably only know about a third as many words in English as Nabokov did. Nabokov's language, his controlled exuberance, his cutting humor, it was all amazing and very technically satisfying, but it wasn't until about halfway in that I became emotionally connected to this story of a Russian emigre which, in the end, moved me deeply. I almost feel like starting over from the beginning tonight. I won't, but I'm sorely tempted.