So tonight I finished reading The Eye by Vladimir Nabokov. The last book I've read not for class since I read Lolita by Nabokov. Anyway, The Eye is pretty decent. I was confused by the back cover copy and the foreword, mainly because I'm stupid and was looking for more than was explained on the back cover, and as such thought I was lost when I was in fact completely aware of what was going on.

The theme of the book is that, you are not a real person. Instead, you are what other people perceive you to be, a million different reflections. Trying to find the real you. The book plays some games with perspective, as the narrator uses his name only in regards to his interaction with other people, and treats his name like its a seperate entity. It's an interesting counterpoint to people who talk about one's name being a trap that you're saddled with. The novel also features a character who keeps a diary, with which he can register his own thoughts on his life, and keep his memories in order. It made me think of this little thing, and how the memories are memories of books and film. I don't know. You never have any idea what you're going to remember. The idea of forgetting friends and such is a much scarier thought, but I can't write about that kind of thing at all. Not just as a blog, but since very little happens of consequence with my friends, it's all taken for granted. I don't know what I'll remember and what I'll forget. People tend to forget books and movies more than friends and experiences, I'd wager. And I guess that I hope this'll work by way of putting a chronology to things that I can then go from the associations back to the people I was around.

It's a good book, all told, although a short one that could easily be read in a day. I spaced it out a bit, but I ended up reading the majority of it today. I read maybe twenty pages beforehand.

The same day I bought The Eye I picked up Ellison's Invisible Man, mainly at my professor's urging. Even though Shadow And Act was pretty terrible, Invisible Man is supposed to be a classic, one of the greatest novels ever written. I suppose I'll read that this summer, which is fast approaching.