The Original of Laura [NOOK Book]

Overview

When Vladimir Nabokov died in 1977, he left instructions for his heirs to burn the 138 handwritten index cards that made up the rough draft of his final and unfinished novel, The Original of Laura. But Nabokov’s wife, Vera, could not bear to destroy her husband’s last work, and when she died, the fate of the manuscript fell to her son. Dmitri Nabokov, now seventy-five—the Russian novelist’s only surviving heir, and translator of many of his books—has wrestled for three decades with the decision of whether to ...
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The Original of Laura

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Overview

When Vladimir Nabokov died in 1977, he left instructions for his heirs to burn the 138 handwritten index cards that made up the rough draft of his final and unfinished novel, The Original of Laura. But Nabokov’s wife, Vera, could not bear to destroy her husband’s last work, and when she died, the fate of the manuscript fell to her son. Dmitri Nabokov, now seventy-five—the Russian novelist’s only surviving heir, and translator of many of his books—has wrestled for three decades with the decision of whether to honor his father’s wish or preserve for posterity the last piece of writing of one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century. His decision finally to allow publication of the fragmented narrative—dark yet playful, preoccupied with mortality—affords us one last experience of Nabokov’s magnificent creativity, the quintessence of his unparalleled body of work.

Photos of the handwritten index cards accompany the text. They are perforated and can be removed and rearranged, as the author likely did when he was writing the novel.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Editorial Reviews

Michiko Kakutani
In many respects, the release of a rudimentary version of [Nabokov's] last novel does a disservice to a writer who deeply cherished precision and was practiced in the art of revision…Yet, at the same time, these bits and pieces of Laura will beckon and beguile Nabokov fans, who will find many of the author's perennial themes and obsessions percolating through the story…bright flashes of Nabokovian wordplay…and surreal, Magritte-like descriptions…They will also find some small, walk-on parts that read like parodic self-portraits
—The New York Times
Publishers Weekly
Before Nabokov's death in 1977, he instructed his wife to burn the unfinished first draft—handwritten on 138 index cards—of what would be his final novel. She did not, and now Nabokov's son, Dmitri, is releasing them to the world, though after reading the book, readers will wonder if the Lolita author is laughing or turning over in his grave.
Library Journal
The son of a painter who's fled Moscow for New York marries a ballerina, and their daughter (well, it's probably his daughter), dreamy, conniving, and amoral, eventually has an unfortunate encounter with her widowed mother's protector, then free-floating sexual and literary experiences until graduating from college and marrying the enormously fat, enormously rich scholar Philip Wild, who indulges in experiments in auto-dissolution, a sort of self-willed dying of various body parts. That is the bare bones of a story contained in 138 note cards that Nabokov left at his death with instructions to burn. Of course, it's beside the point—we're reading this not for plot but for a glimpse into the mind of a great writer. As a bonus, we get the languid atmosphere, the honed language, and that Nabokovian sense that sex and death are linked as self-obsessions. VERDICT Son Dmitri pondered for decades before deciding to release these cards. Should he have done so? Probably, yes: it's astonishing to get this last bit of light from Nabokov. Pop readers titillated by mention of Lolita won't get it, but serious readers and scholars will definitely want to read and ponder. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 7/09; the book includes removable facsimiles of the cards, though the library edition has nonremovable cards.—Ed.]—Barbara Hoffert, Library Journal
From the Publisher
“In these pages readers will find bright flashes of Nabokovian wordplay and surreal, Magritte-like descriptions." —The New York Times
                               
"Tantalizing, fascinating. . . . A generous gift to readers. . . . Filled with sly wit and memorable images." —The Christian Science Monitor
 
"A beautifully printed objet d'art in its own right, the book of previously unpublished writings offers a thrilling insight into the great writer's creative process, 28 years after his death." —The Kansas City Star
 
"A unique chance to see the master out of control. . . . It's like seeing an unfinished Michelangelo sculpture--one of those rough, half-formed giants straining to step out of its marble block. It's even more powerful, to a different part of the brain, than the polish of a David or a Lolita." —New York magazine
 
"This is no ordinary manuscript. . . . The Original of Laura is an astonishingly accurate representation of a genius' shards. But, my God, what shards these are. What devotee of Nabokov, much less mere reader, could possibly regret Dmitri Nabokov's decision to give us this gift? . . . What we have is a novelistic genius's fever dream—one of the great literary talents of his century aswirl with ideas and last thoughts." —The Buffalo News
 
"Nabokov's last metafictive parable. . . . One of the most interesting short stories Nabokov never wrote." —San Francisco Chronicle
 
"Bits and pieces of Laura will beckon and beguile Nabokov fans, who will find many of the author’s perennial themes and obsessions percolating through the story of Philip. . . . In these pages readers will find bright flashes of Nabokovian wordplay and surreal, Magritte-like descriptions." —The New York Times
 
“Undeniably handsome. . . . Nabokov’s ornate vocabulary is predictably fun, especially when applied to body parts.” —The Guardian (London)
 
“The more I reread it, the more I discover and admire. . . . His style may be most extraordinary not so much as prose but as story. . . . For centuries, I predict, scholars of narrative will focus on the opening chapter of The Original of Laura as proof of the new finds to be made in fiction—in characterization, setting, action, speech, narration.” –Brian Boyd, The Globe and Mail (Toronto)
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780307273253
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 1/8/2013
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 320
  • Sales rank: 864,517
  • File size: 91 MB
  • Note: This product may take a few minutes to download.

Meet the Author

Vladimir Nabokov was born in 1899, in St. Petersburg, Russia. His acclaimed works of fiction include Lolita, Pnin, and Pale Fire, among others. He died in Montreux, Switzerland, in 1977.

From the Hardcover edition.

Biography

Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov was born on April 23, 1899, in St. Petersburg, Russia. The Nabokovs were known for their high culture and commitment to public service, and the elder Nabokov was an outspoken opponent of antisemitism and one of the leaders of the opposition party, the Kadets. In 1919, following the Bolshevik revolution, he took his family into exile. Four years later he was shot and killed at a political rally in Berlin while trying to shield the speaker from right-wing assassins.

The Nabokov household was trilingual, and as a child Nabokov was already reading Wells, Poe, Browning, Keats, Flaubert, Verlaine, Rimbaud, Tolstoy, and Chekhov, alongside the popular entertainments of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Jules Verne. As a young man, he studied Slavic and romance languages at Trinity College, Cambridge, taking his honors degree in 1922. For the next eighteen years he lived in Berlin and Paris, writing prolifically in Russian under the pseudonym Sirin and supporting himself through translations, lessons in English and tennis, and by composing the first crossword puzzles in Russian. In 1925 he married Vera Slonim, with whom he had one child, a son, Dmitri.

Having already fled Russia and Germany, Nabokov became a refugee once more in 1940, when he was forced to leave France for the United States. There he taught at Wellesley, Harvard, and Cornell. He also gave up writing in Russian and began composing fiction in English. In his afterword to Lolita he claimed: "My private tragedy, which cannot, and indeed should not, be anybody's concern, is that I had to abandon my natural idiom, my untrammeled, rich, and infinitely docile Russian tongue for a second-rate brand of English, devoid of any of those apparatuses -- the baffling mirror, the black velvet backdrop, the implied associations and traditions -- which the native illusionist, frac-tails flying, can magically use to transcend the heritage in his own way." [p. 317] Yet Nabokov's American period saw the creation of what are arguably his greatest works, Bend Sinister (1947), Lolita (1955), Pnin (1957), and Pale Fire (1962), as well as the translation of his earlier Russian novels into English. He also undertook English translations of works by Lermontov and Pushkin and wrote several books of criticism. Vladimir Nabokov died in Montreux, Switzerland, in 1977.

Author biography courtesy of Random House, Inc.

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    1. Also Known As:
      Vladimir Sirin
    1. Date of Birth:
      April 23, 1899
    2. Place of Birth:
      St. Petersburg, Russia
    1. Date of Death:
      July 2, 1977
    2. Place of Death:
      Montreux, Switzerland

Read an Excerpt

Excerpted from the introduction by Dmitri Nabokov
 
 
As a tepid spring settled on lakeside Switzerland in 1977, I was called from abroad to my father’s bedside in a Lausanne clinic. During recovery from what is considered a banal operation, he had apparently been infected with a hospital bacillus that severely lessened his resistance. Such obvious signals of deterioration as dramatically reduced sodium and potassium levels had been totally ignored. It was high time to intervene if he was to be kept alive.
 
Transfer to the Vaud Cantonal University Hospital was immediately arranged, and a long and harrowing search for the noisome germ began.
 
My father had fallen on a hillside in Davos while pursuing his beloved pastime of entomology, and had gotten stuck in an awkward position on the steep slope as cabin-carloads of tourists responded with guffaws, misinterpreting as a holiday prank the cries for help and waves of a butterfly net. Officialdom can be ruthless; he was subsequently reprimanded by the hotel staff for stumbling back into the lobby, supported by two bellhops, with his shorts in disarray.
 
There may have been no connection, but this incident in 1975 seemed to set off a period of illness, which never quite receded until those dreadful days in Lausanne. There were several tentative forays to his former life at the hôtel Palace in Montreux, the majestic recollection of which floats forth as I read, in some asinine electronic biography, that the success of Lolita “did not go to Nabokov’s head, and he continued to live in a shabby Swiss hotel.” (Italics mine.)
 
Nabokov did begin to lose his own physical majesty. His six-foot frame seemed to stoop a little, his steps on our lakeside promenades became short and insecure.
 
But he did not cease to write. He was working on a novel that he had begun in 1975—that same crucial year: an embryonic masterpiece whose pockets of genius were beginning to pupate here and there on his ever-present index cards. He very seldom spoke about the details of what he was writing, but, perhaps because he felt that the opportunities of revealing them were numbered, he began to recount certain details to my mother and to me. Our after-dinner chats grew shorter and more fitful, and he would withdraw into his room as if in a hurry to complete his work.
 
Soon came the final ride to the Hôpital Nestlé. Father felt worse. The tests continued; a succession of doctors rubbed their chins as their bedside manner edged toward the grave- side. Finally the draft from a window left open by a sneezing young nurse contributed to a terminal cold. My mother and I sat near him as, choking on the food I was urging him to consume, he succumbed, in three convulsive gasps, to congestive bronchitis.
 
Little was said about the exact causes of his malady. The death of the great man seemed to be veiled in embarrassed silence. Some years later, when, for biographical purposes, I wanted to pin things down, all access to the details of his death would remain obscure.
 
Only during the final stages of his life did I learn about certain confidential family matters. Among them were his express instructions that the manuscript of The Original of Laura be destroyed if he were to die without completing it. Individuals of limited imagination, intent on adding their suppositions to the maelstrom of hypotheses that has engulfed the unfinished work, have ridiculed the notion that a doomed artist might decide to destroy a work of his, what- ever the reason, rather than allow it to outlive him.
 
An author may be seriously, even terminally ill and yet continue his desperate sprint against Fate to the last finish line, losing despite his intent to win. He may be thwarted by a chance occurrence or by the intervention of others, as was Nabokov many years earlier, on the way to the incinerator, when his wife snatched a draft of Lolita from his grasp.
 
 
----
 
 
My father’s recollection and mine differed regarding the color of the impressive object that I, a child of almost six, distinguished with disbelief amid the puzzle-like jumble of buildings in the seaside town of Saint-Nazaire. It was the immense funnel of the Champlain, which was waiting to transport us to New York. I recall its being light yellow, while Father, in the concluding lines of Speak, Memory, says that it was white.
 
I shall stick to my image, no matter what researchers ferret from historical records of the French Line’s liveries of the period. I am equally sure of the colors I saw in my final onboard dream as we approached America: the varying shades of depressing gray that colored my dream vision of a shabby, low-lying New York, instead of the exciting skyscrapers that my parents had been promising. Upon disembarking, we also saw two differing visions of America: a small flask of Cognac vanished from our baggage during the customs inspection; on the other hand, when my father (or was it my mother? memory sometimes conflates the two) attempted to pay the cabbie who took us to our destination with the entire contents of his wallet—a hundred-dollar bill of a currency that was new to us—the honest driver immediately refused the bill with a comprehending smile.
 
In the years that had preceded our departure from Europe, I had learned little, in a specific sense, of what my father “did.” Even the term “writer” meant little to me. Only in the chance vignette that he might recount as a bedtime story might I retrospectively recognize the foretaste of a work that was in progress. The idea of a “book” was embodied by the many tomes bound in red leather that I would admire on the top shelves of the studies of my parents’ friends. To me, they were “appetizing,” as we would say in Russian. But my first “reading” was listening to my mother recite Father’s Russian translation of Alice in Wonderland.
 
We traveled to the sunny beaches of the Riviera, and thus finally embarked for New York. There, after my first day at the now-defunct Walt Whitman School, I announced to my mother that I had learned English. I really learned English much more gradually, and it became my favorite and most flexible means of expression. I shall, however, always take pride in having been the only child in the world to have studied elementary Russian, with textbooks and all, under Vladimir Nabokov.
 
My father was in the midst of a transition of his own. Having grown up as a “perfectly normal trilingual child,” he nonetheless found it profoundly challenging to abandon his “rich, untrammeled Russian” for a new language, not the domestic English he had shared with his Anglophone father, but an instrument as expressive, docile, and poetic as the mother tongue he had so thoroughly mastered. The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, his first English-language novel, cost him infinite doubt and suffering as he relinquished his beloved Russian—the “Softest of Tongues,” as he entitled an English poem that appeared later (in 1947) in the Atlantic Monthly. Meanwhile, during the transition to a new tongue and on the verge of our move to America, he had written his last significant freestanding prose work in Russian (in other words, neither a portion of a work in progress nor a Russian version of an existing one). This was Volshebnik (The Enchanter), in a sense a precursor of Lolita. He thought he had destroyed or lost this small manuscript and that its creative essence had been consumed by Lolita. He recalled having read it to group of friends one Paris night, blue-papered against the threat of Nazi bombs. When, eventually, it did turn up again, he examined it with his wife, and they decided, in 1959, that it would make artistic sense if it were “done into English by the Nabokovs” and published.
 
That was not accomplished until a decade after his death, and the publication of Lolita itself preceded that of its fore- bear. Several American publishers, fearing the repercussions of the delicate subject matter of Lolita, had abstained. Convinced that it would remain forever a victim of incomprehension, Nabokov had resolved to destroy the draft, and it was only the intervention of Véra Nabokov that, on two occasions, kept it from going up in smoke in our Ithaca incinerator.
 
Eventually, unaware of the publisher’s dubious reputation, Nabokov consented to have an agent place it with Girodias’s Olympia Press. And it was the eulogy of Graham Greene that propelled Lolita far beyond the trashy tropics of Cancer and Capricorn, inherited by Girodias from his father at Obelisk, and along with pornier Olympia stablemates, on its way to becoming what some have acclaimed as one of the best books ever written.
 
The highways and motels of 1940s America are immortalized in this proto–road novel, and countless names and places live on in Nabokov’s puns and anagrams. In 1961 the Nabokovs would take up residence at the Montreux Palace and there, on one of their first evenings, a well-meaning maid would empty forever a butterfly-adorned gift wastebasket of its contents: a thick batch of U.S. road maps on which my father had meticulously marked the roads and towns that he and my mother had traversed. Chance comments of his were recorded there, as well as names of butterflies and their habitats. How sad, especially now when every such detail is being researched by scholars on several continents. How sad, too, that a first edition of Lolita, lovingly inscribed to me, was purloined from a New York cellar and, on its way to the digs of a Cornell graduate student, sold for two dollars.
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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 8 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 8 Customer Reviews
  • Posted December 23, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Beautiful Book

    After reading several books by Mr. Nabokov, I was very excited to receive and read this book. As with his other novels, the wording and phrasing of the story is beautiful, though the content itself is extremely demented;
    The book never finishes, though within the pages that have been completed, we find two major characters- Flora Wild; a flirty, flighty young girl who only married her husband because of his large amounts of money and cheats on him almost constantly, and Phillip Wild: An awkward, grotesque and overweight old doctor who wants to be recognized by his fellow peers.
    There are two main conflicts; the first one is rather strange. Dr. Wild decides that he wants to kill himself, and does so through imagination; thus, he can reverse the effects whenever he wishes. He feels extreme ecstacy every time he destroys a part of himself, and is obviously an unfortunate masochist.
    The second conflict is a bit less disturbing; Dr. Wild agreed to marry Flora only because she reminded him of a past lover-thus, the two have nearly no feelings toward each other and their relationship is not at all satisfying. We find out that a book has been written by one of Flora`s admirers, which makes Dr. Wild very angry.
    However, we don`t ever get to see how their relationship is affected by this, or if Dr. Wild ever succeeds in killing himself, because the novel comes to an ubrupt halt, as it is not completed-I nearly cried when it ended. The bad part is that I`ll always yearn to know the ending, though there will never be one. Although, since it was at my own discretion that I started reading the novel, I can`t complain.

    The design of the book itself is stunning; I love how realistic the notecards look--you can even punch them out if you so desire! It`s very ingenious and I love it.

    This book deserves nothing less than five stars-it`s magnificent!

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 4, 2013

    Before incurring the wrath of the reviewers who loved this book,

    Before incurring the wrath of the reviewers who loved this book, I should say that I have read all of Nabokov's fiction, and much of it I have read twice. I love his bold experiments like Pale Fire and The Gift. But the Original of Laura isn't a book at all; at best it is a sketch, and if it seems avant garde it is by accident. There are a few stylistic innovations, but it also has terrible jokes and none of the master's substance and finesse. Sure, it's interesting to see Nabokov's process, but imagining what this manuscript contained was more satisfying than finally reading it.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 19, 2012

    Get one! It's a keeper!

    this might be the most insightful book ever produced on the writing process.

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  • Posted January 16, 2010

    must have book

    it is book with original design. High quality paper and cover. This is not usual book, it is something for home private collection. You will have great opportunity to see How one of the greatest writers of 20 century create last book in his life. recommend! sorry for my English=)

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    Posted December 29, 2009

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    Posted February 6, 2010

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    Posted May 26, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

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    Posted October 22, 2013

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