It always feels silly reviewing what is clearly a masterpiece, as if I could pass judgement or somehow augment the reading of a book in which every exquisite word was painstakingly selected (my cliche words, surely, would have been mocked by Vadim Vadimovich N.).
A faux autobiography (replete, I should say, with Russian [which is, gratefully, always translated] and French [which isn't, though lucky for me my meager vocabulary was mostly sufficient]) of an author who bears a passing resemblance to Nobokov himself, this book reminded me a lot of Joseph Heller's Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man (although, of course, if there was a case of inspiration here, it went from Nabokov to Heller and not the other way around): using the memoirs of a parody of the author to answer the critiques, questions, and sycophantic praise they have encountered throughout their lives.
Reading Nabokov is a bit like reading poetry. At times I would stop trying to understand what he's saying, and just enjoy the lilt and rhythm of the words as they washed off the page, a constant torrent of whimsical, baffling, beautiful, clever and, why not, often mocking phrases.

I came across this book by accident, but I am ever so glad I did.