I love to write about Nabokov and also to think about him. I love

Host: The library café was nearly empty, filled only with the sound of pages turning and the soft hiss of espresso machines in the background. Bookshelves lined the far wall — tall, solemn, glowing faintly under warm amber light. Outside, it was raining — that gentle, contemplative kind of rain that turns the world into one long, poetic sigh.

Jack sat at the corner table, a half-empty cup beside him and a notebook open before his restless fingers. The ink on the page was still fresh — the kind of handwriting that leans forward like thought in motion.

Jeeny arrived quietly, carrying her own book under one arm. The cover was worn, the pages slightly curled. She sat opposite him, laying the book down between them — Nabokov’s Speak, Memory.

She smiled, eyes alive with that rare brightness reserved for people who talk about authors as if they were still alive.

Jeeny: “James Salter once said, ‘I love to write about Nabokov and also to think about him. I love his attitude that he is incomparable, his lofty judgments and general scorn of other writers — not all of them, of course.’”

Jack: (raises an eyebrow) “Lofty judgments and scorn — sounds like the ideal dinner guest.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “You’d be terrified of him, Jack.”

Jack: “No, I’d be infuriated by him. There’s a difference. A man who calls himself incomparable is either a genius or unbearable.”

Jeeny: “Or both. That’s what makes him fascinating.”

Host: The rain began to thrum more steadily against the window, creating a rhythm that seemed to echo the cadence of their debate.

Jack: “You admire that kind of arrogance?”

Jeeny: “Not arrogance — conviction. Nabokov didn’t just believe he was good; he knew it. He wrote with precision, with a self-awareness most writers never touch. It’s not pride — it’s craft at its purest.”

Jack: “Or delusion at its most charming.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing humility with honesty. He wasn’t humble, but he was honest. He saw literature as a form of divinity — and himself as its priest.”

Jack: “And that’s not a god complex?”

Jeeny: “It’s devotion.”

Host: The rain outside softened. The café light flickered across the book covers stacked around them — Tolstoy, Joyce, Mann, Salter himself — silent companions in a debate older than both of them: genius versus grace.

Jack: “You sound like Salter in that quote. Adoring the arrogance as if it’s romantic.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Think about it — Salter admired Nabokov precisely for that unflinching certainty. It wasn’t cruelty. It was purity. Nabokov didn’t write for the crowd; he wrote for eternity.”

Jack: “Eternity’s a poor audience. No applause, no feedback.”

Jeeny: “But no compromise either.”

Host: Jack’s smirk faltered, the argument starting to slip from intellectual to personal. He looked down at the notebook — its pages messy with crossed-out lines.

Jack: “You ever feel like writers like that make everyone else irrelevant?”

Jeeny: (gently) “No. They just remind us how high the ceiling can go.”

Jack: “Or how low the rest of us are.”

Jeeny: “Only if you write for comparison instead of clarity.”

Host: The words hung there — delicate, sharp. Jack’s fingers stilled over the page. He glanced up at her, a faint ache behind his skepticism.

Jack: “You ever read Nabokov aloud?”

Jeeny: “Of course. ‘Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.’ Everyone has. It’s intoxicating. Every syllable burns with control.”

Jack: “Control. That’s the word. He worshipped control — over words, over meaning, over emotion. It’s brilliant, but it’s cold.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s surgical. He didn’t write to console — he wrote to illuminate. Sometimes art isn’t meant to comfort. It’s meant to cut.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing cruelty.”

Jeeny: “And you’re confusing cruelty with clarity. There’s beauty in exactness. Nabokov said he despised symbols, metaphors — he wanted precision, not interpretation. That’s rare.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice had changed — low, reverent, alive. Jack leaned back slightly, watching her with an expression that was equal parts admiration and frustration.

Jack: “You really believe literature needs arrogance?”

Jeeny: “Not arrogance — courage. The courage to think your thoughts deserve permanence. Every artist who’s ever mattered had to believe that.”

Jack: “You think Salter was the same?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Salter worshipped Nabokov because he saw in him the thing all great artists crave: freedom from doubt.”

Host: Jack’s hand traced the rim of his cup absently, the way a man does when his thoughts drift between resistance and surrender.

Jack: “Freedom from doubt sounds like the death of empathy.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the birth of mastery.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe mastery’s overrated.”

Jeeny: “Only by those still looking for it.”

Host: A brief silence fell. The hum of the espresso machine filled it, soft and steady. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes studying Jack’s — not challengingly, but kindly.

Jeeny: “What are you really saying, Jack?”

Jack: “I’m saying that men like Nabokov build palaces and forget the streets they came from. That kind of genius isolates. It worships itself.”

Jeeny: “And yet you can’t stop reading him.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Touché.”

Host: Outside, the rain slowed to a whisper. The air in the café seemed to shift, turning warmer, quieter.

Jeeny: “You know why Salter loved him, I think? Because he recognized the loneliness in him. That arrogance wasn’t just superiority — it was defense. When you create something singular, there’s no one left to talk to.”

Jack: “So genius is solitude.”

Jeeny: “It’s the price of self-awareness.”

Jack: “And you think it’s worth it?”

Jeeny: “If it’s honest, yes. If the art outlives the loneliness, then yes.”

Host: Jack closed his notebook slowly, the sound of the cover snapping shut like a punctuation mark. He stared at Jeeny — not with argument now, but with quiet understanding.

Jack: “You’d make a dangerous writer.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because you’d rather be true than liked.”

Jeeny: “Is there any other way to write?”

Host: The light from the window shifted — the rain had stopped entirely now, leaving streaks of gold glistening across the glass. The café had grown still. Time itself seemed to pause, caught between thought and memory.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe arrogance isn’t pride. Maybe it’s armor.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Nabokov wasn’t mocking the world. He was protecting his own.”

Jack: “And Salter admired him for that?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because Salter envied it — the audacity to stand above doubt and say, ‘I am incomparable.’”

Jack: (softly) “Incomparable. That’s a dangerous word.”

Jeeny: “So is love. And yet we still say it.”

Host: A faint smile passed between them — tired, knowing, human. The books around them stood like silent witnesses to the fragile egos of their creators, to the eternal argument between humility and hunger.

Jack: “You think anyone today writes like that anymore?”

Jeeny: “No. We apologize too much now. Greatness requires a bit of vanity — the belief that your voice might echo longer than your life.”

Jack: “So arrogance and art walk hand in hand?”

Jeeny: “Not arrogance. Awareness. The difference between shouting and shining.”

Host: The waiter cleared the cups, the sound of porcelain soft against wood. Jeeny opened her book again, running a finger along Nabokov’s name on the title page.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Salter was really saying. That we don’t have to like Nabokov to learn from him — we just have to respect the precision of his self-belief.”

Jack: “And maybe that belief is what keeps art alive.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because without conviction, even beauty collapses.”

Host: The clock above them ticked softly, the hands edging toward closing time. Jack gathered his notes, Jeeny her book.

They stood, and for a brief moment, both looked around — at the books, the chairs, the faint trace of rain on the window.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, you talk about him like he’s still in the room.”

Jeeny: “He is. Every great writer is — arrogant, luminous, unapologetically alive in their sentences.”

Host: They walked out into the street, the city washed clean, the air crisp and quiet. The sky above was clear now — the kind of night that made every word feel deliberate.

As they stepped into the dim glow of the streetlights, their reflections merged in the puddles beneath them — two imperfect thinkers walking through a world still haunted by genius.

And in that gentle, luminous silence, the truth of Salter’s admiration seemed to whisper through the air itself:

That arrogance, when married to art, becomes not vanity — but vision.

That to call oneself incomparable isn’t to deny others — but to finally stop denying what one is.

And that every writer, in the quiet defiance of their craft, must someday learn what Nabokov knew:

that conviction is not the opposite of humility —
it is simply its brighter, braver twin.