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November 25, 2009

On cathedrals and wheelbarrows

It’s really a great thing that Dimitri decided to honor his relative with this shoddily compiled gathering of notes. What a way to ensure the health of a reputation: hang the dirty underwear in the window to make a profit.

Let’s come clean—$35 is at stake, after all. Vladimir Nabokov’s posthumously published The Original of Laura (Dying Is Fun), despite its considerable width (nearly 2 inches) and heft (2 pounds, 11 ounces), its publisher’s description (“a novel in fragments”), and its advance praise (“a fascinating novel” says biographer Brian Boyd), is not a novel. Not remotely. It is not to be confused with Truman Capote’s Answered Prayers, Ralph Ellison’s Juneteenth, or Italo Svevo’s Further Confessions of Zeno—unfinished novels that contain long, continuous sections of writing, from which it is possible to apprehend the larger work’s subject matter, scope, and ambition, however imperfect the execution. To describe The Original of Laura as a novel would be like mistaking a construction site for a cathedral. Yes, the blueprints might call for flying buttresses and oriel windows, but for now it is only a mess of wheelbarrows, uncut limestone, and piles of sand.

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1 comment on “On cathedrals and wheelbarrows”

  1. tolmsted says:

    Very funny. Though, after reading some of the reviews, I am kind of glad they did publish it. Creating an entire book might have been a bit ridiculous, but it would have been nice to read in a magazine. What surprises me is how much The Original of Laura is like Lolita… it almost seems like a new look from the perspective of a grown Lolita looking back at her past. Of course, I’m basing all of this on reviews, excerpts, etc…. Not interested enough to pay for it.

    What I don’t get is why everyone is so angry at the son for publishing it. Isn’t he Nabakov’s only son? If Dimitri needed the money, I’d imagine his father would be happy he had some old writing to fall back on. (Writing is still a profession and Nabakov always struck me as the practical type). Look at Cormac McCarthy giving his 11 year old son the only signed copies of The Road in existence… obviously not the same situation, but the same intent of providing for his son that I imagine Papa Nabakov would feel.

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