ON THE BACK OF my copy of Pnin (1957), there is a blurb from John Updike. Imagine that! As if Vladimir Nabokov needs blurbing; as if Updike spent his days fielding blurb requests in a spam-riddled inbox. In any case, here it is: “Nabokov writes prose the only way it should be written,” Updike says. “[T]hat is, ecstatically.”
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