The Original of Laura
Guardian Unlimited reports on Vladimir Nabokov’s last work, the one he asked his son to destroy:
From his winter home in Palm Beach, Dmitri (Nabokov) justified his decision (to ignore his father’s will) by saying, “I’m a loyal son and thought long and seriously about it, then my father appeared before me and said, with an ironic grin, ‘You’re stuck in a right old mess – just go ahead and publish!'”
Sounds like a rather unlikely story to me. But there’s nothing wrong with fiction, is there?
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