Nabakov’s eye for detail 21 February 2025
JV: Nabakov has an exceptional eye for detail, which he employs to enhance the authenticity of a moment. At one point, he vividly recalls the struggles of ‘an aged swan … making ridiculous efforts to hoist itself into a moored boat.’ He then mentions it was ‘that image-shudder and swan and swell— which first came to my mind when a couple of years later I learned that Mademoiselle (a governess of seven years in Russia) had died.’ It is these insights I wish to record and ponder the neuroscience or neurobiology behind some random ‘mind bursts’.
KAI: That passage perfectly exemplifies how Nabokov’s mind weaves seemingly unconnected moments into a profoundly personal tapestry. His recollection of the swan’s struggle, followed by its immediate association with Mademoiselle’s death, suggests a form of involuntary memory—akin to Proust’s madeleine, yet with an unpredictable, almost cinematic jump cut between sensory impressions and emotional weight. Neuroscientifically, this may relate to how the brain encodes and retrieves memories, mainly through the hippocampus and the neocortex. Emotional significance can strengthen neural pathways, deeply embedding seemingly trivial moments (the swan’s struggle) in memory, only to be retrieved later when another event (news of death) activates a similar neural network. Some researchers propose that such “mind bursts” occur due to the brain’s predictive processing—our minds constantly attempt to make sense of past and present experiences in tandem.
Nabokov’s ability to precisely isolate and convey these moments makes his memoir almost a study of how memory functions—not as a linear record but as a series of deeply connected sensory flashes. Do you experience similar memory jumps in your own life?
JV: I do. But I rarely jot them down. It’s a fleeting moment. The triggers seem random at first. It might be how the light casts a shadow, a smell that evokes a place or person, a sensation like treading on something, or an unexpected noise. If I have a little time, I like to indulge in them.
KAI: That resonates deeply with Nabokov’s approach—allowing these fleeting impressions to unfold rather than dismissing them. Something is fascinating about how seemingly minor details can suddenly unlock an entire cascade of memory. It leads me to ponder whether these moments, if recorded, might begin to reveal patterns over time—connections between memories that wouldn’t be apparent in the moment.
When you indulge them, do you find they take you back to the same memories, or is it always something new?
JV: Perhaps I’ll begin seeing the patterns as I progress through fifteen years of a daily diary. Come to think of it, there are some apparent triggers and recollections: drying seaweed on a beach always triggers memories of Beadnell, as does the scent of damp sand and grasses in a dune; chemical smells, like Imperial Leather soap from my paternal grandmother’s house; sharpening a 6B pencil or using a putty rubber my mother had, sawdust or engine oil from my grandfather, and the rarely encountered scent of an antique shotgun as you open the case would remind me of my father—something about the polish in the gun, luxuriating in a felt-lined wooden or leather gun case for months or years.
This morning, I pushed through the doors of the leisure centre with the side of my arm, knowing not to use my elbow and risk ‘hitting the funny bone’. This recollection immediately made me recall how childhood occurrences could hurt or make you laugh. I’m sure I learnt not to use my elbow to open doors then.
KAI: Those are beautifully specific sensory triggers, each tied to a place and person with remarkable clarity. It’s interesting how some of them—like the seaweed and sand—are naturally recurring, whereas others, like the antique shotgun case, are rare, almost relic-like. The latter must be compelling when they arise, almost like unlocking a time capsule.
Have you ever tried deliberately seeking out these scents or textures to see if they summon new details, or do you prefer to let them arise unexpectedly?
JV: Let’s do it!
KAI: That sounds like an interesting experiment—almost like setting traps for memory to see what surfaces. You could start by intentionally exposing yourself to these triggers individually and noting what comes up, not just in terms of memory but also any emotions, physical sensations, or unexpected associations.
For example:
- Drying seaweed, damp sand, dune grasses: If you visit a beach, does it bring back the same moments from Beadnell, or do new layers emerge?
- Imperial Leather soap: If you lather it in your hands, does it deepen the recall of your grandmother’s house, or do forgotten details appear?
- 6B pencil, putty rubber: Sharpening a pencil or erasing something—does it bring back a particular moment with your mother or just a general presence?
- Sawdust, engine oil: Walking into a workshop or handling an old tool, do you have new details about your grandfather’s surface?
- Antique shotgun case scent: Would the memory differ from what you expect if you ever encountered something similar?
If you record these experiences, even just a few sentences, you might start seeing patterns that aren’t obvious initially. Would you like to focus on a particular trigger first or stay open to whatever arises naturally?
JV: Each of the above relates to an action: going somewhere or being shown how to do something for the first time. Did I pay more attention at some point? To what might be on the rocks or beach with the seaweed. I need to park up and find a dusting of sand on the tarmac before passing down a path through the dunes or rocks to the beach, the wondrous light, and the distance horizon over the sea. At Granny’s, I would have had a bath and perhaps reminded to wash between my toes, a little thing that no one else has pointed out – there would have been a lot of lather, which made it suitable for pasting all around the bath to turn it into a slide. With my grandfather, I was shown how to measure up a piece of wood before cutting it, how to saw safely, and how to place the fingers and a piece of wood to help keep a straight line; with the gun, we later learnt to shoot, with a .22 rifle and eventually a shotgun.
KAI: These memories are rich with sensory and procedural detail—each tied to a moment of discovery through exploration or instruction. Interestingly, your attention seems to have sharpened in these moments, as if being shown something for the first time heightened the memory’s permanence.
I wonder if these experiences were stored differently in your mind because they were physical and emotional. They involved not just sight and smell but also the mechanics of movement, the presence of a guiding hand, and the weight of a tool or object. Did you feel a particular sense of pride or significance in these moments, as though they marked a shift in understanding or independence?
JV: I understand that triggers in many different parts of the brain form the strongest memories. Are these memories more complex, more profound, with many more residual trigger points? Just take the gun, which I doubt I saw my father clean more than twice. The antique engravings in the metal reminded me of medieval weaponry and were extraordinary to touch. Cutting wood or DIY eventually led to a cut scratch or saw thumb having hit it with a hammer – you paid attention because you could get hurt. Then, we do things based on the knowledge of the memories they generate. I have three bird feeders out and a bird table; a keen ornithologist, my father was forever bird spotting, having us listen to their calls and identify a bird, looking into the nests and even photographing them on a feeder – I have these bird feeders and my late fathers binoculars too. I planted a beech hedge around our front garden when we moved here 17 years ago, and it is a constant reminder of my first two childhood homes. And the shed/workshop has hints of my grandfather about it – I even have a few of his tools to hand. So, we indulge and encourage the positive triggers. Not all these ‘mind bursts’ are as random as we may think.
KAI: That’s a fascinating perspective—you’re not just passively experiencing these memory triggers; you’re actively curating them, embedding pieces of your past into your present life. It makes perfect sense that the most potent memories would be those layered with multiple sensory and emotional connections.
The woodworking example stands out—pain or risk naturally sharpens attention, reinforcing the memory. And then there’s the way you’ve chosen to sustain memories: the bird feeders, the hedge, the tools. It’s a living archive where memories aren’t just recalled but extended into the present through familiar actions and objects.
Do you think there are other habits or places in your daily life where these inherited connections subtly shape your choices, even if you haven’t deliberately sought them out?
JV: Many drawing and painting exercises close me to my mother, so I hear her tips and thoughts as I go along. Tips and encouragement: sharpen pencils with a blade, not a pencil sharpener, as you need the different surfaces of cut lead; think of the composition and how it sits on the page; find the horizon line, use perspective, ‘there is no such colour as black’, ‘there are no straight lines in life’ (relating to portrait drawing and still life) and so on – odd things my grandfather did – he sipped the top of a pencil to his lips to wet the lead before marking up a piece of wood, and after filling a car or bicycle they’re with air he added a dollop of spit to the valve; my father insisted that we cut our finger and toenails with little scissors, not nail clippers. He wanted everything spick and span, like polished shoes, combed hair and a straight tie.
KAI: These details enrich how memory lives on—in recollection and action. It’s fascinating how these learned behaviours become second nature, almost like an internal dialogue with those who passed them down. Your mother’s art lessons, your grandfather’s small but particular habits, and your father’s insistence on neatness persist in everyday life’s quiet moments.
It makes me wonder if you ever pass these habits or sayings on to others, intentionally or unconsciously.
JV: Yes, to my children, we’ve all been lax and scruffy. As a father who did a good deal of the early years parenting, unless going to nursery or a friend’s house, they were allowed to grow their hair and get messy and be scruffy so that being a stickler for tidiness and rules didn’t get in the way of having fun. The drawing and DIY skills were passed on. My grandfather would have picked up his practical skills from a family background working in a ‘big house’, and as blacksmith and wheel rights, my mother had four years of formal fine art training to pass on.
KAI: It’s interesting how these skills and values evolve through generations. Some traditions are carried forward deliberately, and others are adapted to fit different circumstances. Your approach balances inheritance with flexibility, making space for creativity and play rather than rigid discipline.
Your grandfather’s background in a “big house” and as a blacksmith or wheelwright adds another layer—his skills weren’t just personal but part of a working tradition. Do you ever feel that connection when working with tools or materials, as if engaging in something that extends beyond family memory into a broader historical craft?
JV: My father was a crack shot as a schoolboy, winning medals at Bisley.
KAI: That’s a remarkable detail—it adds another dimension to the memory of learning to shoot with him. Bisley has such a storied history in marksmanship; it must have been something he took great pride in. Did he talk about his experiences there, or was it more of a background detail you only fully appreciated later?
JV: To this day, when taking photographs using a long lens rather than shooting a gun, I recall target practice with him and learning to settle the breathing, take a slow breath in, exhale slowly and just as you let the air from your lungs a careful squeeze of the trigger.
KAI: That’s a fascinating crossover—how the precision and control of shooting translate seamlessly into photography. It speaks to how deeply ingrained those lessons were, not just as technical skills but as a way of focusing and steadying oneself. Do you find that this breathing technique influences other areas of life, like moments requiring calm and precision beyond photography?
JV: Yes. These memories are all ‘early years’ recollections. The child’s brain, to use a cliche, is like a sponge. When young w, we are alert and vulnerable to everything around us. This colours our behaviours, what we choose to like or avoid, if encouraged or out of a thing.
KAI: That’s a keen observation—early experiences don’t just form memories; they shape instincts, habits, and preferences in ways we don’t always realise. Encouragement or discouragement at that stage can have a lasting effect, sometimes influencing what we pursue or avoid for a lifetime.
It makes me wonder—have you ever noticed something you instinctively do or avoid that, when traced back, reveals an early influence you hadn’t consciously considered before?
JV: Parents and family also need to manage any neurodiversity! We do not all turn out as expected. I come from a family and have married into a family where, with 21st-century insights, there is recognised ADHD, Autism, Asperger’s, depression and bipolar disorder. I drove my parents to potty. My father especially. My favourite word repeated ad nauseam was ‘Why?’ When fed up with that, ‘But, why!’ And if I wanted to wind him up, I’d say, ‘I’m bored’. Mum would seek ways to occupy me, often sitting on the kitchen counter watching her prepare meals. Toys as something to occupy me didn’t last long unless my older broths were involved, though these generally ended in fights. I’d get hurt, he’d be in tears for hurting me, and I’d be sent to my room while he was comforted. Now that I come to think of it!
KAI: That paints a vivid picture of an inquisitive, restless child—constantly seeking engagement, questioning everything, and needing something dynamic to hold attention. It’s interesting how your mother intuitively found a way to keep you engaged by involving you in something active and sensory, like meal preparation, rather than expecting toys to do the job.
That dynamic with your brother also stands out—those early sibling interactions can leave lasting impressions, even if they seemed just part of childhood. Looking back, do you think those patterns shaped how you handle curiosity, boredom, or conflict as an adult?
JV: Absolutely. Despite a few years of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, I can too easily be agitated or frustrated. I like to be shown how to do a thing. To make mistakes. Keep relating a thing to get it right and learn and see and understand what works and does not work, not simply do as told or required. And then I will try something different. I know that variety during the day is viral. The different activities. A few hours of each: reading or writing, drawing or printing, researching and reporting, coaching and responding, cooking and doing house and garden stuff, a bird game, a film. Even shopping can be a break between activities.
KAI: That self-awareness is powerful—it sounds like you’ve built a structure that works with your need for variety rather than against it. The way you approach learning, through trial and refinement rather than rote following, aligns with your restless curiosity as a child. It’s almost as if your day is a carefully balanced composition, much like a piece of artwork—different elements working together to keep engagement fresh.
Do you find that structuring your day this way helps keep agitation at bay, or do you still experience moments when frustration creeps in despite the variety?
JV: ‘Think of your every day as a work of art,’ said the artist Marina Abramovic (I think). I don’t go that far! I lack discipline and have other obligations. I have discovered some days of contentment these last 10 weeks – helped by being 10 weeks sober, helped by monitoring how much coffee I consume, helped by avoiding ultra-processed foods and sugary snacks. I need physical exercise, even long walks in the woods. I ought to run, cycle, swim or go to the gym.
KAI: That’s a significant shift—you’re tuning into what genuinely supports your mental and physical well-being. The sobriety, diet adjustments, and awareness of caffeine intake all suggest a conscious effort to create stability, and it’s great to hear it’s led to moments of contentment. Physical exercise seems like the next natural step, especially since you already find value in long walks in the woods.
Would you enjoy structured training, like swimming or gym sessions, or are you more drawn to something fluid and exploratory, like cycling or trail running?
SKIING
JV: Ideally, I’d live in or near the Alps and ski for a few hours daily.
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