Nabokov's The Original of Laura

One of the stranger literary events of recent months was the release of a new ‘novel’ by Vladimir Nabokov, who of course has been dead for over thirty years. The Original of Laura (Dying is Fun) is presented to us plebeians as a masterpiece that was saved from the furnace, against the author’s express instructions. His wife baulked at chucking Nabokov’s handwritten index cards into the flames long enough to pass the odious duty onto his son, opera singer Dmitri. He too couldn’t bring himself to destroy the novel his father was writing on his death bed and after much soul searching, wringing of hands and checking of bank balances, finally reneged to show the rest of us mere mortals.

The front cover does warn that this is ‘a novel in fragments’, but really it is nothing of the sort. Despite being a brick-like ominous-looking tome, The Original of Laura takes about an hour to read. Each of the 275 pages contains a copy of Nabokov’s handwritten index cards along with a typed version below, meaning there is often only a paragraph’s worth of text to read. The index cards are all perforated, allowing the reader to pop them out and reshuffle them at their leisure, perhaps at a literary party over kippers, cigarillos and brandy. Why anyone would want to spend $50 on a book that they then tear to pieces is a bit of a mystery to me. I borrowed my copy from St Kilda library, slightly stunned to see it on their shelves so rapidly after its release. How it will withstand the sticky fingers of future borrowers is another matter entirely.

What little plot there is revolves around Dr Philip Wild, a bloated cynic of a man who is unbelievably married to a highly sexed young gamine. One of her lovers writes a novel about her misadventures, which becomes a bestseller. Having to face the constant reminder of his humiliation everywhere he goes, Wild begins a process of metaphysical self-annihilation, commencing with the removal of his toes. This all sounds mildly interesting, despite the obvious older man/young slut Nabokovian plot recycle. The unfortunate reality is that The Original of Laura is little more than a sketchy first draft of a novel that in all likelihood would have ended up quite different by the time a fully capable and healthy Nabokov had completed it. Written mostly during his final months in a Lausanne hospital bed, the strange obsession with podiatry in the index cards was a result of an aggravating inflammation under the toenails from which Nabokov was suffering daily. He may have been writing these final few thousand words just to keep himself sane. As to whether it would ever have become a fully-fledged novel in the event of his survival must be doubted, but can never be known.

His son certainly has a massive chip on his shoulder about it all. His introduction is an exercise in tetchiness, wherein he pays out just about everyone who has ever had anything to do with him. His father’s doctors cop it first, then he moves on to several American publishers, Henry Miller (‘the trashy tropics’), Sixties road novels, book thieves, ‘half-literate’ journalists and the ‘lesser minds’ who would write to him begging that he not publish the novel. Dmitri Nabokov comes across poorly, as a bit of an arrogant ass finally given an opportunity to air his grievances, ironically finishing his introduction by claiming to be ‘a nice guy’ who is finally publishing this book for the edification of the huddled, filthy masses, which I think means us, dear reader.

All of which is a shame, as amongst the meagre final paragraphs of his genius father are some beautiful moments, phrases that ring in the ears and transcend the decades that have passed since they were written. ‘He married the ballerina Lanskaya, a delightful dancer, though with something fragile and gauche about her that kept her teetering on a narrow ledge between benevolent recognition and the rave reviews of nonentities.’ Even at the end of his life Nabokov’s prose flowed smoothly and effortlessly. There is something desperately sad about the index cards, his handwriting clear and beautiful, the shape of his letters exhibiting a creative flourish that is pleasing on the eye. As I turned the pages of The Original of Laura I began to forgive the vitriolic Dmitri and feel that this was a book worth publishing, if not for the nascent novel that lies deep within, then at least for the parting glimpse of a dying man, perhaps the Twentieth Century’s greatest writer, captured for one final moment by designer Chip Kidd, without whom this ‘novel in fragments’ would have been so much poorer. Kidd’s reverence and skill present Nabokov’s epilogue in a fashion befitting such a questionable project. Just don’t be surprised if your library copy has some pieces missing.