Symbiosis: Vladmir Nabokov

To read previous posts in this series, click here.


I latched onto Nabokov my second year of college. I was skipping classes, then, shacking up in a wicker chair next to the poetry section of a local used bookstore, spending my hard-earned tuition money on as many raddy literary classics as I could my dirty hands on. One day my hands found Lolita. I groped the cover, opened to the first page and ran my eyes up and down the first paragraph. My face turned hot. My pulse rang heavy. O the words, they flowed like milk! O the syllables, they dripped, like honey! I licked my lips and took a big, deep breath before leaning in for more.

Writing is such a full-fledged artform, to do it right one has to be a multi-instrumentalist. There's language, character, structure. There's rhythm, scheme and rhyme. Nabokov is that someone-special who can play all of the instruments in the band--and play them well. He's the one who taught me that fearlessness (along with respect for craft) produces the most memorable work; that writing can and should be an experiment.

To view a recently re-surfaced video interview/ footage of Nobakov (dating back to 1965) click here. 

To read further text from the interview click here.

Symbiosis: The Prince of Pathos

Artists have symbiotic relationships with one another. We feed, we nourish off of each other. Many times one artist could not, would not exist if it weren't for the other.

One such relationship I've formed is with the late and great Charlie Chaplin, whom I refer to as "The Prince of Pathos," for he undeniably turns my stoic heart into an absolute puddle of humanistic mud whenever his Little Tramp graces the screen. The way he wears not only his heart on his sleeve, but his own contradiction as well--the short, tight waistcoat and big, baggy pants--that innocent heart and beguiling mind; the way he wanders around, lonely as a cloud: Chaplin created the quintessential moving picture of what it means to have inherited the artistic spirit. He is the one who best reminds me of the reason why we artists must exist: to remind our fellow human beings that we are each made of dirt, of clay; that we are fallible; and that this life is indeed meant to feel like one, long beautifully-tragic flaw.