“…and when Luzhin left the balcony and stepped back into his room, there on the floor lay an enormous square of moonlight, and in that light — his own shadow.”
The awareness of this being a story of a man possessed by chess (“…sleep could find no way into his brain; it searched for a loophole, but every entrance was guarded by a chess sentry…”) makes the allusion to the white square of a chessboard more impeccable.
Nabokov is a writer that allows a reader to experience cinematography in literature. The deliberate composition of each frame is so visually satisfying that I’m tempted to say it’s the reason I read him. But I would be lying. I’m also here for the traces of his synesthesia.
“Hearing” the chess moves — “combinations like melodies”, chess notations synthesize with musical scores, games begin “softly, softly, like muted violins” then without the least warning, a chord sings out tenderly, a trace of another melody manifests, some other deep, dark note chimes elsewhere…
Sometimes I, too, ask myself if I’m missing the point and reading Nabokov incorrectly by fixating on those passages and often forgetting that this is a tragic tale about how our sanctuaries can turn into obsessions and lead to madness, or the fact that this novel belongs up there with Stefan Zweig’s Chess Story; but then I find myself falling for those passages all over again. Part of me asserts that if this is me reading him wrong then I’m reluctant to be right!
The Book-Butterfly 