The Original of Laura
When Vladimir Nabokov died in Switzerland in 1977, he left explicit instructions for his heirs to destroy the penciled index cards that made up his work to date on his unfinished 18th novel, The Original of Laura (Dying is Fun). V茅ra, his loyal wife and amanuensis, who died in 1991, couldn鈥檛 bring herself to do it. And, fortunately, after much debate, neither could their son, Dmitri.
Of course, it鈥檚 one thing not to burn the partial draft, and another to publish it. But, although Nabokov may be squirming in his grave, Nabokov fans and scholars have reason to thank Dmitri for his brave parental defiance in publishing this invaluable glimpse into the way his brilliant father worked.
All too often, publications of half-cooked literary fragments are not just disappointing in literary terms, but seem motivated as much by greed as by the heirs鈥� desire to keep their famous forebear alive in print. But whatever one thinks of Nabokov鈥檚 emphatically unfinished book 鈥� and we鈥檒l get to that 鈥� it certainly hasn鈥檛 been rushed into print in an unseemly fashion. Thirty-two years after Nabokov鈥檚 death at 78, its publication feels more like a generous gift to readers than a ploy for fame or fortune.
This is in great part due to the dazzlingly clever presentation of the material. By reproducing facsimiles of Nabokov鈥檚 138 penciled index cards at the top of each page and printing typeset transcriptions with minimal editorial changes and notes below, Chip Kidd, associate art director at Knopf, has designed a format that reminds us forcefully, in graphic terms, that 鈥淭he Original of Laura鈥� is a work in progress and not an ordinary manuscript.
The photographed cards are perforated, to encourage us to stack and shuffle them 鈥� as Nabokov apparently did 鈥� into an order that might make more sense. Nabokov鈥檚 neat handwriting is punctuated by eraser smudges, inserted phrases, and emphatically crossed-out or scribbled-over words.
But it becomes fainter, sketchier, and more sparse as he races against time and illness in a Lausanne hospital, trying to net ideas and pin down a draft, a goal as elusive as some of the butterflies he chased and collected around the globe.
Although Nabokov鈥檚 last novel is especially intriguing to his devotees, readers whose familiarity with Nabokov鈥檚 work is limited to his most famous novel, 鈥淟olita鈥� (1955), will also find plenty of interest. The story 鈥� such as it is 鈥� involves 鈥渁n extravagantly slender girl,鈥� Flora, whom we meet at age 24 in the act of cheating on her older husband. Her current lover is a writer who, shortly after their affair ends, writes a critically attacked but bestselling novel (as was 鈥淟olita鈥�) about her, called 鈥淢y Laura.鈥�
Flora 鈥� thus the original of Laura 鈥� is the daughter of a ballerina named Lanskaya (as in land and sky) and, probably, her husband Adam Lind, a photographer also of Russian extraction who shoots himself over a jilted homosexual love. Raised by her flighty mother in Paris, lovely 12-year-old Flora is pestered by the too-close attentions of her mother鈥檚 creepy older English lover, Hubert B. Hubert 鈥� a clear echo of Lolita鈥檚 Humbert Humbert.
Flora鈥檚 cuckolded husband is an obese, brilliant neurologist and lecturer named Philip Wild. Flora is 鈥渕esmerized by his fame and fortune鈥� but otherwise indifferent to his wit and accomplishments.
Despite its limited word count鈥� each card contains barely a paragraph or two of prose 鈥� the book is filled with sly wit and memorable images, many of which evoke Flora鈥檚 girlish body, in sharp contrast with her hard, emotional detachment. A lover 鈥減inafores鈥� her stomach with kisses, a phone rings 鈥渆cstatically,鈥� and during sex, 鈥淎 tear of no particular meaning gemmed the hard top of her cheek.鈥�
The manuscript gets stranger and more fitfully elliptical in the second half, which largely concerns Wild鈥檚 description of his weird psychological experiments. These involve putting himself into a trance and willing the dissolution of various parts of his body, beginning with his painful toes 鈥� 鈥渟uicide made a pleasure.鈥�
Wild dreams of a high school crush, Aurora Lee,聽 whose 鈥渃old gaze鈥� reminds him of his wife (and whose name evokes Flora, Laura, and Poe鈥檚 Annabel Lee). But he confesses wistfully to loving 鈥渙nly one girl in my life, an object of terror and tenderness.鈥�
Perhaps Wild鈥檚 desire to 鈥渢hink away thought鈥� and himself and make dying fun by 鈥渁uto-dissolution鈥� stems from a broken heart over wayward Flora. But it isn鈥檛 a stretch to imagine a wretched Nabokov in his Lausanne hospital bed, wishing to 鈥渆fface/expunge/erase/delete/rub out/wipe out/obliterate鈥� his offending body parts. These are the words listed on the last card of this tantalizing, fascinating, occasionally perplexing manuscript. Pity he didn鈥檛 get to finish it. Fortunate we get to see it at all.
Heller McAlpin, a freelance critic in New York, is a frequent Monitor contributor.
