More than anything else, this is an incredibly stylish book. Perhaps surprisingly, I have a big thing for books (or stories in general) set in places which by their very existence render any discussion of the financial maneuvers underlying the endless shuttling between, say, a series of Alpine resort towns unnecessary. In assuming that this is indeed what life is like for the fabulously wealthy, the reader gives the author a great deal of both credence and, more importantly, attention; when the author is Daddy Vladdy Nabokov himself, the latter is richly rewarded.

When I say stylish, I mean this: it is highly fashionable to immerse yourself in the lives and concerns of young people who have old suitors; whose social itineraries must specify not just events but their locations; who make jokes that span three languages. Nabokov, graciously, is present to bridge the gap between such people and the uninitiated reader, providing an ongoing and often parenthetical narration that is itself the novel's highlight. For the first third or so of the book, it feels as though you are being told an un-ending joke; nothing feels particularly real, and plot events are, it seems, mostly set pieces for some narrative aside (this may sound unappealing, but it's great). The middle section becomes unexpectedly engaging plot-wise, and the closing act quite sad. The voice persists throughout, however, providing a consistent frame for the brief tragedy of Hugh Person and Armande, as well as a Glamorama-esque cavalcade of indistinct acquaintances.

It's for a vague sense of all of the above that I have over the years collected Nabokov's novels; it is because a friend of mine who's a big Russian literature nerd was quite insistent on pronouncing his last name as nuh-BO-koff (simultaneously boosting my sense of the author's importance and, in a Joycean sort of way, disinclining me to ever bother reading him) that I had until now never cracked them. Alas, I am pleased to share that the catalog is well worth your time! What impressed me most about Transparent Things was not so much its opaque tricks of language as the way in which Nabokov can somehow generate ongoing brilliance within a very familiar overall form. To me, it's altogether more impressive to be forced to put down a book multiple times an hour off the strength of some straightforward punch to the heart/gut/mind than because your decoder ring has finally put together an obscure joke from a chapter back.

By way of endorsement, I saw The Phantom Thread last weekend and found a lot of the above to apply there as well; it seems like enjoyment of one is a reliable indicator that the other would be as well-received.