Pnin, by Vladimir Nabokov

For some reason, other reviewers tend to tout Pnin as hilarity incarnate, which only really works if they're referring to the Heh of Existential Recognition. Or "funny boo-hoo" instead of "funny ha-ha." Either one. More tragedy than comedy, Vladimir Nabokov's overlooked thirteenth novel serves up a slice of life flavored like the awkward professor of the title – Timofey Pavlovich Pnin. Throughout his stint in America and career at the entirely made-up Waindell College, he continuously wrestles against an unfamiliar language and cultural protocols.

A fact which, most uncomfortably for the reader, earns more scorn, mockery, and suspicion from his peers than honest displays of compassion, warmth, and a desire to assist him through any setbacks he might encounter. Hardly surprising, considering the 1957 publication date, but it's entirely probable that expatriate professors today experience similar isolation. How many students have overheard others wringing not-so-lighthearted – if not outright critical – laughs over a foreign instructor's accent, stories, or perceived quirks? One of Pnin's most nauseating scenes occurs at a party thrown at the home where the Russian professor boards. The hostess has to deflect his desire for a drink away from a coworker engaged in an extended performance making a sideshow of Pnin's…well…everything. It's squirm-in-your-seat comedy launched almost a half-century before everyone latched onto The Office, depicting the overlooked reality of many non-Americans in America.

Both students and teachers, particularly those working closely with professors for whom English is not their native tongue, nor the United States their native country, could stand to learn a little lesson in empathy from this short novel. It helps that Nabokov himself is – mind you, I'm not coming from a place of hyperbole here – one of the greatest English-language novelists of the 20th century. In my opinion, anyways, though his name's survival into the present should prove I'm not on a solo flight to Cuckootown here. His eloquence and use of a likely unreliable narrator (something of a Nabokov specialty) simultaneously adds a splash of pitch-black humor and a crushing shaker of pathetic.

"Pathetic." That right there more or less serves as Pnin's full summary. It isn't completely him and his pining over a manipulative ex-wife so much as his situation. He's successful, but not terribly respected. And Nabokov's eloquent, sophisticated, and startlingly beautiful prose delivers a steady stream of gut punches from the first page to the last. Were he a lesser author, the power and insight regarding the experiences of foreign professors in America would entirely fail to deliver the necessary empathy.