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Among the many prestidigitating selves inside Vladimir Nabokov is a valet who can palm himself off on readers when the master grammarian is sleeping off his skills next door. As he has said, he 'has always been a conjuror: all art is deception and so is nature—see the butterfly mimicking the leaf.' So Look at the Harlequins! is the valet's fast-talking parody. He becomes Vadim—even Vadim McNab for a while, since Americans have difficulty with the two 'o' 's that follow—a Russian émigré aristocrat, quick to enjoy puberty, living briefly in Cambridge (Eng) and France, writing poems and novels—ghostly list of books supplied.
Review, 1340 words
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