Customer Reviews

The Original of Laura (LB): Library edition, nonremovable cards

5 star:		(9)
4 star:		(7)
3 star:		(1)
2 star:		(2)
1 star:		(2)

 

 

So: Flora is married to a much older man. She's not satisfied. She has lovers galore. One of them has written a novel, "My Laura," in which he tells everything about her. A copy ends up in the hands of her husband, who is now dedicated to think himself out of existence--literally. That's the story. Only, it is not really there. You can guess it as you can feel the ghostly presence of future Nabokovian corrections (elimination of redundancies, substitution of common verbs for more striking ones, a vast cast of secondary characters, etc.). But in truth "The Original of Laura" is not a novel. It is something less and something more than that.

It is less because, unlike the case of Kafka's and Virgil's masterpieces, this is truly unfinished --that is, unfinished beyond any possible reconstruction-- and will forever remain so. In Flora's description we can find the following premonitory remarks: "Her exquisite bone structure immediately slipped into a novel -- became in fact the secret structure of that novel." That is exactly what we have: not a novel but its bones.

If you are not already a "Nabokovian," or if you simply want to "read a novel" during your morning trip to work, I suggest that you pick any other text by the master.

At the same time it is something more because it allows us to take a sneaky look at the creative process as Nabokov understood it --or as it was laid upon him by the Muse, Chance, McFate (remember the list in Lolita?) or whomever you choose. As most of his readers know he wrote his books on little index cards, not in the order of the finished story, but rather like a puzzle--today a piece here, tomorrow a piece there. What really makes this edition special is not so much the text itself --I hate to say this, I love Nabokov, and there are some gems buried in the heap, of course, things like "Mrs Lind cursed the old housemaid for buying asparagus instead of Aspirin and hurried to the pharmacy herself," or "A cloudless September maddened the crickets")-- but the fact that every single manuscript card is reproduced in very high quality, so that you have the manuscript and its printed version together in every single page. As if that were not enough, the cards are detachable, so you can shift them around and play with the order of the story, as the author would have done (well, not exactly as he would have done it, but you get to play "the great writer" for a little while).

I think this is a nice touch; that sitting in Nabokov's chair for a little while and looking at the work-in-progress is a way of paying our tribute to someone who has made us live a good part of our lives in a state of bliss.

I have a whole shelf of Nabokov books in my home. I fell in love with the man's writings after reading the author's introduction to _Pale Fire_. I have thrilled over lines in his books and his short stories, lamented that he isn't studied in the academy as often as he should, and lent out his works.

But this most recent book, which I preordered and waited for with bated breath was not up to the standards of his most mediocre work. The production of the text is interesting to see as an academic curiosity, but I vastly overpaid for that privilege. There's about 30 pages of text here if it were broken down and no story. What happened was the seeds of a story were taken and turned into a middling post-modern novel. I respect what his literary executors were trying to do for fans and scholars, but I feel that Vladamir's wishes were honored on this occasion.

I have to say though that I am generally not against the publication of posthumous fiction. I have thrilled lately at the remnants of Kurt Vonnegut's life works. I have enjoyed _A Happy Death_, a novel found amongst the wreckage of Camus's life. I also puzzled over a collection of uncompleted speeches by Calvino. But what those texts had was completeness. _The Original of Laura_ lacks this completeness. However, as a fan of the man's works, I do still feel fortunate to have this last contact.

In the opening image of "The Original of Laura," a husband smashes a paperweight on the hand of his nymphomaniac wife as she rumages through his desk. The brutality is not payback for her affairs, but a warding off of her perceived attempt to snoop into his unfinished "poisonous opus." (In fact, she was searching for a piece of junk mail.)

Are we, the morbid readers of a work which the author never finished and, as the legend goes, gave instructions to destroy on his death bed, the ones who really deserve the bruised knuckles? Many who shell out full price for this thick hardcover which contains less than four thousand words will no doubt feel a certain stinging feeling. The decision to publish photographic images of Naboakov's original index cards side-by-side with a typeset version has its charm. But why the need to devote whole pages to their blank backs? I am not complaining, I am just not sure if this is a clue, a joke or a cheap con to get the volume up to fighting weight for the New Hardback racks.

The novel is about a fat, aging professor who copes with death by turning it into a sexual game and who copes with his wife's serial infidelities by writing a humiliating novel about her. As a side project, the professor is deconstucting, "The Interpretation of Dreams." We get plot and character in fragments. Yet the story has tremendous emotional heft. These are disturbed and, at times, ugly people. But we care about them despite ourselves, despite them and despite the fact that the novel is barely a first draft. Less is more, and, with a writer as miraculous as Nabakov, almost nothing is more than less.

The story behind the book's journey to print overshadows the actual story in the book, which itself is a unique literary achievement. In the introduction, Dimitri Nabokov explains the curse of his inheritance: satisfy his father's wishes when he is not sure of his father's wishes. In the end, he settles on a cop out: he is no longer going to deal with the debate, no more being hounded by academic stalkers. He has made us all the caretaker of his curse. We even get our own set of index cards.

My copy arrived yesterday and I read it in a single sitting. I've read absolutely nothing in advance of this, so I read it without anyone else's footprints in my path.

The title itself, "The Original of Laura", tells you this will be different. What does that mean, "the original of Laura"? That's a broken sentence. The origins of Laura?

Pull off the book's cover and wordplay begins. Hidden under the cover is a list of words for efface, erase, delete... and the list contains a deleted phrase. Words and reality intertwined. You've not yet begun to read, and already the book is mirroring itself.

Printed on card stock, Vladimir's index cards are photographically reproduced as punch-out cards; you can remove the cards and create your copy of Vladimir's index cards, just as he held them in his hands. This book isn't a book, it's the reproduction of the original (index cards) of Laura.

Dimitri Nabokov has created a puzzle worthy of his father. If you admire Nabokov's work, get this book. (Psst. I also recommend Danielewski's "House of Leaves".)

Vladimir Nabokov wrote (The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, pg.32): "...he (S.Knight) belonged to that rare type of writer who knows that nothing ought to remain except the perfect achievement: the printed book; that its actual existence is inconsistent with that of its spectre, the uncouth manuscript flaunting its imperfections like a revengeful ghost carrying its own head under its arm; and that for this reason the litter of the workshop, no matter its sentimental or commercial value, must never subsist." Did Dimitri ever read this?

We miss his voice and are easy prey for the promise of a new encounter. After reading the entire ouvre, several of them repeatedly, and every critical and biographical work, I couldn't resist this volume. It took less than 30 minutes to read, and it was a mediocre, rudimentary sketch of a novel idea, nothing more. Someone's cashing in on our love and respect for a great mind, and ignoring his justified wishes.

As an admirer of Nabokov, I wish I could give this a higher rating. Unfortunately, it's not a book but rather a fragment of one.

We have an obese man blissfully oblivious to being cuckolded by his wife until the fact is driven home by a novel penned by another lover and he decides to obliterate himself by meditating on the process. None of the characters is fully realized and it's apparent Nabokov was a long way from completing the story.

Am I among those who wish it never had been published? No. A little is better than no Nabokov. The wit is present. The playfulness with language. The quirky character names. There's even a Hubert H. Hubert, reminding one of another character. Hopefully there's enough to interest those who haven't already to investigate his oeuvre. It's inspired me to read again some favorites.

As I writer, I also found it interesting to see the hand-written cards he used to compose his manuscript. It's obvious they are not a complete book but a sort of road map Nabokov used as he explored, changed and developed the novel already present in his mind. What a book it might have been had he lived to complete it is undoubtedly a far cry from what we are given.

Vladmir Nabokov's manuscript "The Original of Laura", published some years after his death, is more a bunch of notes than a full realized novel. For Nabokov's die hard fans - for whom this book seems to be aimed - this could be a joy. To see the master's own handwriting, his ideas for a novel being build up etc etc, this can be priceless. But for those who are only interested in a novel, it is advisable to read the books that he actually wrote instead of a book that we planned to write.

In "The Original of Laura" there are some interesting ideas that could have been developed into an amazing novel - maybe Nabokov's masterpiece in an ouvre that already included masterpieces as "Lolita" and "Ada or Ardor". But life denied him the right of writing this novel, so readers must find pleasure in loose sentences and topical ideas.

It is not that it is a bad book - of course not, but it is a blueprint of a novel. Who could live inside the blueprints of a house? Maybe the same person who would be satisfied by reading the plans of a novel.

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!

I am torn. Ironic choice of words since you can literally and figuratively tear this book apart: literally, the authors' (Vladimir & Victor) perforated index note cards can be detached from the book itself; figuratively, because reviews of this unique "novel" will likely not be kind. But there's more here than meets the eye. I hate this novel. It's the worse mess since "The Sound and the Fury" (which as a novel signified nothing). "Laura" was not meant to be marketed, yet; "Fury" wasn't either. But "Laura" is more than nothing--it's a most fascinating teaching tool. The reader gets to re-arrange the ideas/note cards and, as you should, fill in blanks, add your own note cards--create your own novel! Then re-shuffle the deck and do it again. The significance is that you get to ghost-write with one of the most perfect assemblers of words ever born. This is an amazing opportunity. Maybe I'll start a contest to see who can create the best novella using the "Laura" note cards. Truly, what if someone gave you the first draft of the movie script for "Casablanca"--which likely had little to do with Letters of Transit and more to do with a fat, useless exporter of applesauce--and you had the assignment of cleaning it up and making it yours. "Laura" is a keepsake, not as a good read (it's not that, in fact it's incomprehensible), but as a thrilling writer/teacher's tool. Have fun with it.