Vladimir Nabokov uses the word âposhlostâ, a transliteration for the Russian word âĐżĐŸŃĐ»ĐŸŃŃŃâ. Nabokov never provides a definition for âposhlostâ, instead he relies on examples to convey itâs meaning.
NABOKOV
âPoshlust,â or in a better transliteration poshlost, has many nuances, and evidently I have not described them clearly enough in my little book on Gogol, if you think one can ask anybody if he is tempted by poshlost. Corny trash, vulgar clichĂ©s, Philistinism in all its phases, imitations of imitations, bogus profundities, crude, moronic, and dishonest pseudo-literatureâthese are obvious examples. Now, if we want to pin down poshlost in contemporary writing, we must look for it in Freudian symbolism, moth-eaten mythologies, social comment, humanistic messages, political allegories, overconcern with class or race, and the journalistic generalities we all know. Poshlost speaks in such concepts as âAmerica is no better than Russiaâ or âWe all share in Germanyâs guilt.â The flowers of poshlost bloom in such phrases and terms as âthe moment of truth,â âcharisma,â âexistentialâ (used seriously), âdialogueâ (as applied to political talks between nations), and âvocabularyâ (as applied to a dauber). Listing in one breath Auschwitz, Hiroshima, and Vietnam is seditious poshlost. Belonging to a very select club (which sports one Jewish nameâthat of the treasurer) is genteel poshlost. Hack reviews are frequently poshlost, but it also lurks in certain highbrow essays. Poshlost calls Mr. Blank a great poet and Mr. Bluff a great novelist. One of poshlostâs favorite breeding places has always been the Art Exhibition; there it is produced by so-called sculptors working with the tools of wreckers, building crankshaft cretins of stainless steel, Zen stereos, polystyrene stinkbirds, objects trouvĂ©s in latrines, cannonballs, canned balls. There we admire the gabinetti wall patterns of so-called abstract artists, Freudian surrealism, roric smudges, and Rorschach blotsâall of it as corny in its own right as the academic âSeptember Mornsâ and âFlorentine Flowergirlsâ of half a century ago. The list is long, and, of course, everybody has his bĂȘte noire, his black pet, in the series. Mine is that airline ad: the snack served by an obsequious wench to a young coupleâshe eyeing ecstatically the cucumber canapĂ©, he admiring wistfully the hostess. And, of course, Death in Venice. You see the range.
In Philistines and Philistinism (1981), Nabokov once again attempts to relay the meaning of poshlost to readers. This time he mockingly spells it âposhlustâ, suggesting a literal lust for that which is posh. Here he describes it as:
Russians have, or had, a special name for smug philistinism â poshlust. Poshlism is not only the obviously trashy but mainly the falsely important, the falsely beautiful, the falsely clever, the falsely attractive. To apply the deadly label of poshlism to something is not only an aesthetic judgment but also a moral indictment. The genuine, the guileless, the good is never poshlust. It is possible to maintain that a simple, uncivilized man is seldom if ever a poshlust since poshlism presupposes the veneer of civilization. A peasant has to become a townsman in order to become vulgar. A painte
Besides it being a principle central to the work of my favorite author, I think the concept of poshlost/poshlust resonates with me because it feels so fitting for current cultural conditions. For a while now, almost all mainstream cultural products have felt incredibly hack (the aesthetics of neoliberalism). By offering a framework for understanding the lacking state of culture, poshlust makes it more interesting. Also, I think itâs a really funny concept.
