The prison of time, said Nabokov, is spherical and without exits. Speak, Memory maps a human life during societal deterioration, a process relevant to the new climate. Nabokov’s home was an idyllic, plentiful wonderland centered inside a disturbed Russia approaching back-to-back revolutions. Nabokov’s childhood home was torched, leaving behind the iron staircase fashioned by his paternal grandfather; Vladimir, his mother, and his siblings fled for their lives, to southern Crimea, while his father, Vladimir Dmitrievich, remained behind, and was later assassinated in Berlin. The life of my family, said Nabokov, had completely changed; we were absolutely ruined; the complete curbing of the public’s minds was achieved in no time after the contingent of the intellectuals had escaped abroad, or had been destroyed; the loss of my country was equated for me with the loss of my love. Men who write about their homes should have their own wing inside a burning library, but I also believe in literature’s expanding universe, how, despite one million stories, we’ll read another story, and one more, year after year.