The more I read by or about Nabokov, the stronger my suspicion that he was an actual utility monster.
Explain.
Just in the sense that he was so finely attuned to the state of the world and the pleasures of thought. The delight he took in examining a butterfly would probably balance out my getting thrown into a volcano.
My father (born 193…8? He was 50 when I was 05) had his early boyhood in Ithaca NY, home to Cornell, he has. stories about seeing Nabokov a block or too on heading out with his butterfly net.
He also has stories of going over to the neighborhood house whose wife made cookies for local kids only he was away and she was nervous and suited men were watching things, payoff being he was a physics professor called off to the Manhattan Project
He also has stories about Nabokov going out to the car every day in the winter, no matter how obviously snowed in it was, trying to drive off, honking, and waiting for Vera to come bustling out of the house to clear out the snow
That sounds soooo Nabokov right, absentminded professor. I told that one for years then someone pointed out he’d long been proud of never learning to drive
