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Владимир Набоков: The original of Laura

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Владимир Набоков The original of Laura

The original of Laura: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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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.

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Fits in with conversation in first of book


Well, a writer of sorts. A budding and already rotting writer. After being a poor lector in some of our last dreary castles. Yes, he is a lecturer too. A rich rotten lecturer (complete misunderstanding, another world). Whom are they talking about? Her husband I guess. Flo is horribly frank about Philipp (who could not come to the party — to any party)

SELF-DESTRUCTION SEGMENT

heart or brain — when the ray projected by me reaches the lake of Dante or the Island of Reil


This goes with self-destruction


I do not believe that the spinal cord is the only or even main conductor of the extravagant messages that reach my brain. I have to find out more about that — about the strange impression I have of there being some underpath, so to speak, along which the commands of my will power are passed to and fro along the shadow of nerves, rather than along the nerves proper.

This goes with part about Laura


The photographer was setting up.

I always know she is cheating on me with a new boyfriend whenever she visits my bleak bedroom more often than once a month (which is the average since I turned sixty)


The only way he could possess her was in the most [] position of copulation; he reclining on cushions, she sitting in the fauteuil of his flesh with her back to him. The procedure — a few bounces over very small humps — meant nothing to her. She looked at the snow-scape on the footboard of the bed — at the curtains; and he holding her in front of him like a child being given a sleigh ride down a short slope by a kind stranger, he saw her lyric [] back, her hips between his hands.

Like toads or tortoises neither saw each other's faces.

[Wild's notes] [Aurora]

My sexual life is virtually over but — I saw you again, Aurora Lee, whom as a youth I had pursued with hopeless desire at high-school balls — and whom I have cornered now fifty years later, on a terrace of my dream. Your painted pout and cold gaze were, come to think of it, very like the official lips and eyes of Flora, my wayward wife, and your flimsy frock of black silk might have come from her recent wardrobe. You turned away, but could not escape, trapped as you were among the close-set columns of moonlight and I lifted the hem of your dress — something I never had done in the past — and stroked, moulded, pinched ever so softly your pale prominent nates, while you stood perfectly still as if considering new possibilities of power and pleasure and interior decoration. At the height of your guarded ecstasy I thrust my cupped hand from behind between your consenting thighs and felt the sweat-stuck folds of a long scrotum and then, further in front, the droop of a short member. Speaking as an authority on dreams, I wish to add that this was no homosexual manifestation but a splendid example of terminal gynandrism. Young Aurora Lee (who was to be axed and chopped up at seventeen by an idiot lover, all glasses and beard) and half-impotent old Wild formed for a moment one creature. But quite apart from all that, in a more disgusting and delicious sense, her little bottom, so smooth, so moonlit, a replica, in fact, of her twin brother's charms (sampled rather brutally on my last night at boarding school), remained inset in the medallion of every following day.

And all of this goes with self-destruction segment.

[Willpower, absolute self domination.]

Electroencephalographs recordings of hypnotic "sleep" are very similar to those of the waking state and quite different from those of normal sleep; yet there are certain minute details about the pattern of the trance which are of extraordinary interest and place it specifically apart from both sleep and

As I destroyed my thorax, I also destroyed [] and the [] and the laughing people in theaters with a no longer visible stage or screen, and the [] and the [] in the cemetery of the asymmetrical heart


A process of self-obliteration conducted by an effort of the will. Pleasure, bordering on almost unendurable ecstasy, comes from feeling the will working at a new task: an act of destruction which develops paradoxically an element of creativeness in the totally new application of totally free will. Learning to use the vigor of the body lor the purpose of its own deletion, standing vitality on its head.


Nirvana blowing out [extinguishing], extinction, disappearance. In Buddhist theology extinction… and absorption into the supreme spirit, [nirvanic embrace of Brahma] bonze = Buddhist monk bonzery, bonzeries the doctrine of Buddhist incarnation Brahmahood = absorption into the divine essence.


Brahmism

[all this postulates a supreme god]

Buddhism

Nirvana = "extinction of the self" "individual existence" "release from the cycle of incarnations" "reunion with Brahma (Hinduism) attained through the suppression of individual existence" Buddhism: Beatic spiritual condition The religious rubbish and mysticism of Oriental wisdom. The minor poetry of mystical myths

[Wild A]

The novel Laura was sent to me by the painter Rawitch, a rejected admirer of my wife, of whom he did an exquisite oil a few years ago. The way I was led by delicate clues and ghostly nudges to the exhibition where "Lady with Fan" was sold to me by his girlfriend, a sniggering tart with gilt fingernails, is a separate anecdote in the anthology of humiliation to which, since my marriage, I have been a constant contributor. As to the book, a bestseller, which the blurb described as "a roman a clef with the clef lost for ever," the demonic hands of one of my servants, the Velvet Valet as Flora called him, kept slipping it into my visual field until I opened the damned thing and discovered it to be a maddening masterpiece.

[Last §][Z]

Winny Carr, waiting tor her train on the station platform of Sex, a delightful Swiss resort famed for its crimson plums, noticed her old friend Flora on a bench near the bookstall with a paperback in her lap. This was lhe soft cover copy of Laura issued virtually al the same time as its much stouter and comelier hardback edition. She had just bought it at the station bookstall and in answer to Winny's jocular remark ("hope you'll enjoy the story of your life") said she doubted if she could force herself to start reading it. Oh you must! said Winnie. It is, of course, fictionalized and all that, but you'll come face to face with yourself at every other corner. And there's your wonderful death. Let me show you your wonderful death. Damn, here's my train. Are we going together? "I'm not going anywhere. I'm expecting somebody. Nothing very exciting. Please let me have my book." "Oh, but I simply must find that passage for you. It's not quite at the end. You'll scream with laughter. It's the craziest death in the world." "You'll miss your train," said Flora.

[Five A]

Philip Wild spent most of the afternoon in the shade of a marbrosa tree (that he vaguely mistook for an opulent tropical race of the birch) sipping tea with lemon and making embryonic notes with a diminutive pencil attached to diminutive agenda book which seemed to melt into his broad moist palm where it would spread in sporadic crucifixions. He sat with widespread legs to accommodate his enormous stomach and now and then checked or made in midthought half a movement to check the fly buttons of his old fashioned white trousers. There was also the recurrent search for his pencil sharpener, which he absently put into a different pocket every time after use. Otherwise, between all those small movements, he sat perfectly still, like a meditative idol. Flora would be often present lolling in a deckchair, moving it from time to lime, circling as it were around her husband, and enclosing his chair in her progression of strewn magazines as she sought an even denser shade than the one sheltering him. The urge to expose the maximum of naked flesh permitted by fashion was combined in her strange little mind with a dread of the least touch of tan defiling her ivory skin. To all contraceptive precautions, and indeed to orgasms at its safest and deepest, I much preferred — madly preferred — finishing off at my ease against lhe softest part of her Ihigh. 'I his predilection might have been due to the unforgettable impact of my romps with schoolmates of different, but erotically identical, sexes.

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