Near the end of Nabokov’s Lolita, Humbert makes an honest admission: [A]nd it struck me…that I simply did not know a thing about my darling’s mind. That line sums up the isolate game of memorializing a deceased loved one, which is the basic tension in Nina’s Memento Mori, an elegy to Mathias Freese’s lost wife. The profound responsibility of answering the question Who was Nina? is left to the lone memoirist:

I can say or write anything I want about her…There is much writerly power in that. I am the executor of her probate in all things now. She is mine now in ways she could not be when alive. I am the steward of her memory.

Freese ends up analyzing himself, putting the me in memento and the i in mori, thanks to ever-giving Nina posthumously providing a therapeutic mirror or Rosebud, which Freese appropriates from Citizen Kane. But Freese mourns more over the burden of existence than over its loss. Appropriately, for Kane is not about the symbolic sled as much as it’s about the cumulative snow that buries it.