Sergey Nabokov's Novels
__________________
The Prismatic Bezel
His imagination was strong—
An almost feminine quality
He saw halos around boys
Everyday things were—
Just mirrors of his own
Sebastian-esque arrows
A single mean look—
Could pierce and ruin
Him forever and ever
Well endowed Cupids—
Large knuckly hands
Soft husky male voices
Tres mnemogenic—
Masculine males never
Forgot his rare lips
Success
“The abyss lying
between experience
and thought”
—Vladimir Nabokov
The Real Sebastian Knight
The maddening feeling—
The words waiting for him
The ones just right for love
The shuddering nude—
The derogatory thoughts
Oozing out of their faces
No closer similes—
Than a guy with exceptional
Build lurking after soccer
Usually a young student—
Ready for a private session
Sebastian good at such things
Lost Property
“Who is speaking
of Sebastian Knight?”
—Vladimir Nabokov
The Real Sebastian Knight
He had that easy swing—
Of a well-oiled Novelist between
A pair of Proustian parenthesis
A certain way of reminding—
Me how the Now became the
Past with merely a yawn
Making me feel like a pawn—
I was his half-brother but still
Merely an embarrassment
Who was Sergey Nabokov—
Reshaped by writers, reshaped by
Readers, hidden by a brother?
The Doubtful Asphodel
“In November of 1928
my mother resolved to
flee with Sebastian and
myself from the dangers
of Russia. The Revolution
was in full swing…”
—Vladimir Nabokov
The Real Sebastian Knight
Volodya depicts his—
Escape from an unknown
Country of terror & misery
Everything brutally gone—
Freedom, rights, wealth,
His inheritance stolen
The liberty of his exile—
He’d never exchange it for
Any vile parodies of home
Tyrannic iniquities—
Making his innate distrust
Even more wretched
The Funny Mountain
“I felt immensely sorry
for him and longed to
say something real with
wings and a heart”
—Vladimir Nabokov
The Real Sebastian Knight
Sergey's lifelong affection—
For me had always been
Crushed and thwarted
Had I ever been aware—
If he’d read my books at all,
Had he delighted in them?
I wasn't much of a brother—
I didn't really know Sergey
I was spoiled, self-possessed
Sergey became Parisian—
Much better than I could have
I simply despised Paris and Berlin
__________________
The Prismatic Bezel
His imagination was strong—
An almost feminine quality
He saw halos around boys
Everyday things were—
Just mirrors of his own
Sebastian-esque arrows
A single mean look—
Could pierce and ruin
Him forever and ever
Well endowed Cupids—
Large knuckly hands
Soft husky male voices
Tres mnemogenic—
Masculine males never
Forgot his rare lips
Success
“The abyss lying
between experience
and thought”
—Vladimir Nabokov
The Real Sebastian Knight
The maddening feeling—
The words waiting for him
The ones just right for love
The shuddering nude—
The derogatory thoughts
Oozing out of their faces
No closer similes—
Than a guy with exceptional
Build lurking after soccer
Usually a young student—
Ready for a private session
Sebastian good at such things
Lost Property
“Who is speaking
of Sebastian Knight?”
—Vladimir Nabokov
The Real Sebastian Knight
He had that easy swing—
Of a well-oiled Novelist between
A pair of Proustian parenthesis
A certain way of reminding—
Me how the Now became the
Past with merely a yawn
Making me feel like a pawn—
I was his half-brother but still
Merely an embarrassment
Who was Sergey Nabokov—
Reshaped by writers, reshaped by
Readers, hidden by a brother?
The Doubtful Asphodel
“In November of 1928
my mother resolved to
flee with Sebastian and
myself from the dangers
of Russia. The Revolution
was in full swing…”
—Vladimir Nabokov
The Real Sebastian Knight
Volodya depicts his—
Escape from an unknown
Country of terror & misery
Everything brutally gone—
Freedom, rights, wealth,
His inheritance stolen
The liberty of his exile—
He’d never exchange it for
Any vile parodies of home
Tyrannic iniquities—
Making his innate distrust
Even more wretched
The Funny Mountain
“I felt immensely sorry
for him and longed to
say something real with
wings and a heart”
—Vladimir Nabokov
The Real Sebastian Knight
Sergey's lifelong affection—
For me had always been
Crushed and thwarted
Had I ever been aware—
If he’d read my books at all,
Had he delighted in them?
I wasn't much of a brother—
I didn't really know Sergey
I was spoiled, self-possessed
Sergey became Parisian—
Much better than I could have
I simply despised Paris and Berlin
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