I have not finished yet -- and I don't know if I will then actually write a review when I do. After all, what can I say or add or... why should I comment... on works of art? Pieces of crap deserve comment. It's obligatory. Works on objective material -- books on history or sociology or entomology or prosody -- can be commented upon or corrected or endorsed...; but ...?-- well, that's just me, maybe.
Anyway -- this is a truly magnificent book. Don't be mislead by some of the less than enthusiastic ratings offered on goodreads. I can't say whether it is nearly as good as the books I haven't read yet..., obviously -- but that's neither there nor here.
One point, though.
Nabokov, of course, had a son -- and the emotional power of this book is inseparable from that fact.