Crítica literaria anglosajona

En su reseña de la traducción de Eugenio Onegin de Vladimir Nabokov, Edmund Wilson intenta dar lecciones de ruso y de traducción a Nabokov. La respuesta de éste es devastadora, e incluye una precisa descripción de la crítica literaria anglosajona, más preocupada por si el autor es "compasivo" o deja de serlo, en vez de discutir los méritos del libro.

My most serious failure, according to Mr.Wilson.,“is one of interpretation." Had he read my commentary with more attention he would have seen that I do not believe in any kind of “interpretation" so that his or my "interpretation" can be neither a failure nor success. In other words, I do not believe in the old-fashioned, naive, and musty method of human-interest criticism championed by Mr. Wilson that consists of removing the characters from an author's imaginary world to the imaginary, but generally far less plausible, world of the critic who then proceeds to examine these displaced characters as if they were "real people."

Kafka y Nabokov

La primera página de la traducción inglesa de La transformación de Franz Kakfa, con notas de Vladimir Nabokov (fuente).

Examen

Esta descripción de un examen apareció en la entrevista que Alvin Toffler hizo a Vladimir Nabokov para Playboy, recopilada en Strong Opinions:

For some reason my most vivid memories concern examinations. Big amphitheater Goldwin Smith. Exam from 8 A.M.to 10:30. About 150 students--unwashed,  unshaven young males and reasonably well-groomed young females. A general sense of tedium and disaster. Half-past eight. Little coughs, the clearing of nervous throats, coming in clusters of sound, rustling of pages. Some of the martyrs plunged in meditation, their arms locked behind their heads. I meet a dull gaze directed at me, seeing in me with hope and hate the source of forbidden knowledge. Girl in glasses comes up to my desk to ask: "Professor Kafka, do you want us to say that...? Or do you want us to answer only the first part of the question?” The great fraternity of C-minus, backbone of the nation, steadily scribbling on. A rustle arising simultaneously, the majority turning a page in their bluebooks, good team work. The shaking of a cramped wrist, the failing ink, the deodorant that breaks down. When I catch eyes directed at me, they are forthwith raised to the ceiling in pious meditation. Windowpanes getting misty. Boys peeling off sweaters. Girls chewing gum in rapid cadence. Ten minutes, five, three, time's up.