I’m not sure what I think on hearing that Vladimir Nabokov’s last, very unfinished novel will be published. I can certainly understand his impulse to provide for its destruction if he didn’t live to finish it. Most writers are mortified (pun intended) by the thought of letting anyone see their writing before they’re ready to let go if it. But then, he’s dead. He can’t get any more mortified than that.
Besides, the “respect his wishes” argument is easily outweighed by the long literary history of books that were rescued from the fire, the grave, and the garbage. Even if it’s not in a a state that will entertain anyone but scholars, it can be fascinating to see a story in its early drafts, complete with the author’s plans and self-questioning and changes. So if I were a Nabokov fan, I’d look forward to it.
What bugs me is the aura of secrecy, publicity, and gimmickry than surrounds the whole story. I mean, the book will be published as facsimiles of his index cards on perforated pages so you can pop them out and play with them. That’s just silly. It just reeks of the publisher thinking, “Great! We finally got hold of this property. Let’s dress it up and sell it as fast as we can, before people wise up and decide his final wishes were right.”
In the end, the one thing I’m sure of, is this is the last time I’ll write a post about Nabokov.
Writing Every Day 