If there were any justice in the world, Vladimir Nabokov would be insufferable. As amply demonstrated by a foreword so smug and self-satisfied that it makes you want to punch him square on the nose, his cleverness - the undoing of many a half-decent novel(ist) - is not at all easy to ignore. It crops up too often in his writing as well: little stylistic and structural connivances that shake you out of your involvement with the narrative, irritating and unnecessary.
Thing is, Nabokov The Smart-Arse is mostly forced to play second fiddle to Nabokov The Storyteller. And the less effusive, more charming Nabokov proves to be a pure, simple wonder. "The Luzhin Defence" is conceptually splendid, as you'd expect, but its realisation is where the real joy lies.
Thus, when he's not preening and posing, Nabokov demonstrates his increasing mastery of the form. The characterisation of Luzhin - instinctive chess genius, barely functional human being - is just sublime, a masterpiece of subtle shading and concealed definition. His ear for incidental fragments of dialogue is uncanny, just short of abstraction. And yet, somehow, all of this is framed by a story that bounds along eagerly; for all its marvellous artistry, it's a novel that's deeply, easily rewarding to read. And impossible to hate, from the very first page.
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