I don't feel very comfortable giving this book five stars, because it is the work of a rambling pretentious author who tries to be too introspective and self-aware with his 'art'. But I'm not talking about Nabokov. I'm talking about Hermann, the novel's protagonist. In his characteristic metafiction, Nabokov has created the prototype (Despair was one of his earlier novels) of some of his more famous characters Humbert (Lolita) and Kinbote (Pale Fire) – egomaniacs whose shortcomings must be judged by the reader between the lines. I can't really be original in pointing out that Hermann is a pathetic dual of Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment, because Hermann himself points it out in passing.
The first half of this book was somewhat dry, as I found with Lolita and to some extent the prose portion of Pale Fire. But the raw creativity and intelligence of the book really hit me in the second half. I don't like to use the word 'genius' lightly, but I seem never to be able to reserve it when it comes to Nabokov. One thing that bothers me is that I can't tell at many stages whether it's Nabokov or Hermann speaking, especially with the sharp parodies that Hermann/Nabokov makes about popular literature, but perhaps this is what contributes to the wonderful subtlety and complexity of the novel.
What is death, if not a face at peace—its artistic perfection?
...
My indecision was becoming a nuisance, as it was quite causeless and senseless in view of the firmness of my intentions; perhaps it could be dismissed as a physical, mechanical
...
a combination of decency and sentimentality is exactly equal to being a fool.