Ganin is a Russian ex-pat living in Germany in a boarding house with a bunch of other Russian ex-pats and exiles. One of his neighbors is particularly chatty and intrusive, which bothers Ganin until the man shows him a picture of his wife, Mary, who will arrive in Germany soon. Ganin then spends the next week flashing back to an earlier part of his life, when he and Mary knew and loved each other.

Mary is Nabokov’s first novel, written when he was in mid-20s, and that definitely shows both in style and theme of the book. This makes the twelfth of nineteen novels I’ve read of Nabokov’s, and falls somewhere in the middle for enjoyment. The prose does not yet show Nabokov’s mastery, though perhaps that’s because he only assisted with the translation of this one, and kept it as straight to the original as possible as noted in his introduction, rather than playing with the text to give it the same feel. It also shows a lot of the hallmarks of first novels. The techniques, as well as the focus of the story and the ending, feel very young.

Most of the book is told in flashbacks: how Ganin and Mary met, how they became involved, and eventually, how they parted. The present narrative, after Ganin breaks out of the bored routine of daily life with the advent of Mary’s impending arrival, turns into an obsession that flows through the pages almost like the rhythm of a heart, beating and beating with all thoughts flowing towards one point: She is coming. She is coming. She is coming. My favorite passage from the book comes right after Ganin sees Mary’s picture, when life becomes real to him again:

Occasionally…something would happen which no one walking in a city ever notices: a star, faster than thought and with less sound than a tear, would fall. Gaudier, gayer than the stars were the letters of fire which poured out one after another above a black roof, paraded in single file and vanished all at once in the darkness.

“Can–it–be–possible,” said the letters in a discreet neon whisper, then the night would sweep them away at a single velvet stroke. Again, they would start to creep across the sky: “Can–it–”

And darkness descended again.

Oh the beauty of that scene! The magnificence of Nabokov’s symbolism, juxtaposing this re-found, miraculous love with a trashy motel sign, both alight with possibility, though perhaps of two different kinds. This book was worth reading just for that one moment at the beginning of chapter three. To me, that was the pinnacle of the book, and my favorite moment. It was the moment the story came to life.

The rest was less fulfilling, I admit. Too many flashbacks, and a twist-end that, again, felt very young. I prefer Nabokov’s slower novels, rather than the rushed pace of Mary. I prefer his drawn-out works to his shorter novellas. As a beginning, Mary is a great novel, a wonderful debut, but since Nabokov was mastery itself, the book does not quite live up to his later works. Still, it is definitely worth reading, and an interesting way to get to know Nabokov’s written progress a little better.