This morning I finished up The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, authored by almost certainly the greatest writer of the twentieth century, Vladmir Nabokov. This one seemed particularly suited to my interests: it's the story of a younger brother who seeks to construct the biography of an older brother (a well-regarded novelist) whom he hardly knew and who has recently died. It's really good. I think Pale Fire is still my favorite, and I really need to read Lolita again, but this may be #3. (I liked Pnin a lot too. With some writers you just can't go wrong.)

No other modern author, not even Calvino, makes me feel quite as superfluous as Nabokov does. I won't get there. (You won't either.)