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Last weekend, Die Zeit published scans of four notecards from the 138-notecard-manuscript of Vladimir Nabokov’s final, unfinished work, The Original of Laura. Composing on notecards allowed Nabokov to set down his books out of sequence; he said he could see in a flash the whole of a novel and its details, and as notecards accumulated in the shoeboxes where they were stored, Nabokov could shuffle them into final order before his wife, Véra, typed up a more conventional manuscript.
Nabokov fanatics who got their hands on a paper edition of Die Zeit (the cards were not published online) read the author’s tidy, penciled letters, and recognized that the text of three of the cards had already been published. “Her painted eyelids were closed,” begins notecard nine (number written in the upper right corner and circled neatly); “render at last what:” ends notecard eleven. Those framing phrases and what runs between them appeared in 1999, in The Nabokovian, the journal of the International Vladimir Nabokov Society.
Setting aside as premature any discussion of quality, we can consider quantity. The three notecards mentioned contain a grand total of 178 words. If that’s the average for any three of the 138, the whole of The Original of Laura—to be published around the world as a book in fall of 2009—will run something under 8,200 words. The Great Gatsby, a short novel, is 50,000 words.
I concede that the world of letters is under aggressive assault from the button-pushers; I admit that “intellectual life” is an idea and an ideal hard to liberate, these days, from quotes. Still, I would suggest that it might be considered something more than merely a marketing coup that the looming, if still-distant, publication of what amounts, in length, to a short story by a writer of difficult and excellent books, can still make international news. It might even be cheering.
More from Wyatt Mason:
Fleming awoke in the dark and his room felt loose, sloshing so badly he gripped the bed. From his window there was nothing but a hallway, and if he craned his neck, a blown lightbulb swung into view. The room pitched up and down and for a moment he thought he might be sick. The word “hallway” must have a nautical name. Why didn’t they supply a glossary for this cruise? Probably they had, in the welcome packet he’d failed to read. A glossary. A history of the boat, which would be referred to as a ship. Sunny biographies of the captain and crew, who had always dreamed of this life. Lobotomized histories of the islands they’d visit. Who else had sailed this way. Famous suckwads from the past, slicing through this very water on wooden longships.
A welcome packet, the literary genre most likely to succeed in the new millennium. Why not read about a community you don’t belong to, that doesn’t actually exist, a captain and crew who are, in reality, if that isn’t too much of a downer on your vacation, as indifferent to one another as any set of co-employees at an office or bank? Read doctored personal statements from underpaid crew members — because ocean life pays better than money! — who hate their lives but have been forced to buy into the mythology of working on a boat, separated now from loved ones and friends, growing lonelier by the second, even while they wait on you and follow your every order.
Rank of Detroit among major U.S. cities whose residents give the largest portion of their income to charity:
A South Dakota researcher concluded that only scant blood spatter results when chain saws are used to dismember pigs.
Four people were arrested for using a remote-controlled hexacopter to fly two pounds of tobacco to prisoners inside the yard at Calhoun State Prison in Georgia.
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Our congratulations to Alice Munro, winner of the 2013 Nobel Prize for Literature