For the introverts, his daily schedule, outlined in a 1975 profile by James Salter for People magazine(!), sounds downright heavenly. The Nabokovs entertained no friends, never went to the movies, tipped everyone well, and rarely left town. Montreux was self-isolation par excellence. Nabokov stayed at the hotel from 1961 until his death in 1977. (Literary greats: they’re just like us!) The book was revised at Lake Geneva’s Montreux Palace, where Vladimir and Véra lived after Lolita’s success provided a comfortable sinecure. Speak, Memory collects magazine pieces originally written for Harper’s and the New Yorker, when Nabokov needed cash to supplement his meager teaching income.
In my defense, literary propriety felt especially flexible after bleach-wiping groceries. The last thing old Vladimir desired was anyone drawing lifestyle advice from his work.
I first read it 10 years ago and quickly saw the wisdom in the author’s oft-quoted line, “One cannot read a book: one can only reread it.” Nabokov’s remembrances granted reprieve from the new abnormal and – crucially – guidance on how to navigate it. My listlessness ended after I pulled Vladimir Nabokov’s autobiography Speak, Memory from my bookshelf, more or less at random.
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