I have read with great pleasure Sebastian Knight, Pnin, another novel whose title escapes me momentarily, and Speak, Memory by Nabokov. I did something I rarely do when I read -- I laughed. First, at the dry rejoinder when his Minister of Justice father took a lot of money rather than a title from Czar Alexander ("another failed count'), and then at his own off-hand comment: "in my twenty years of exile, I of course devoted a prodigious amount of time to chess problems." Yes, I laughed out loud. His writing is extremely vivid, and I thought Sebastian Knight really was a tour de force.
And I'm now about halfway through Georges Sand's Histoire de ma vie. I told my partner I was forever cured of worrying about being a narcissist writer -- 1129 pages of small type about her own life? Unbelievable. I am enjoying it thoroughly.
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