I know, I know: I'm getting sick of hearing about the debacle behind Vladimir Nabokov's The Original of Laura, too. By now, you're well-aware that the book has almost no literary worth, and that it was only published because Nabokov's son, Dmitri, is a greedy son of a bitch. (I'm certain, too, that the publisher had its eyes on the money prize, too. Of late, things haven't been easy for publishers.) I've said that those one hundred thirty-eight index cards should've been burned, but not because it was Nabokov's dying wish. My distaste for Dmitri went from the cynical kind to, more recently, resignation. It's done. The scumbag published it, and while no one's better off because of it, I confess I was a little curious to read it. Just a little.

I don't think curiosity justifies the book's thirty-five dollar suggested retail price. But I went to a bookstore earlier tonight and, as I was leaving, happened upon a display featuring the manuscript. It was bigger than I thought it'd be, just slightly smaller than a coffee table book--up to this point, I'd imagined it being a little bigger than a set of index cards--and thick. (Hence the thirty-five dollar price tag: the book is printed on heavy paper.) I opened it and noted, on the front page, (Dying is Fun). I was almost tempted to read Dmitri's excuse (or "introduction," as the jacket copy would have it), but decided it would probably be better if I let him stay quiet. (Gordon Gekko might be right, but Dmitri's wasn't the kind of greed he was referring to.) I opened the book at random and read the yellowed index card, then skimmed the printed text underneath. I flipped one page back and found more of the same.

I didn't bother reading any further, because I suddenly lost all interest in The Original of Laura. Sure, it was interesting to see the index cards, but as I left the store, I wondered why anyone would want to read all of them. I can appreciate the writing process--this might be The Original of Laura's only redeeming quality--but I'll go ahead and say it: I don't give a damn how a writer does his or her work. The writing process, from what I've heard and read, is boring, akin to a painter telling someone exactly how colors are mixed. I realized I didn't want to read Nabokov's unfinished manuscript any more than I wanted to read, say, James Joyce's handwritten manuscript of Ulysses. And I'm certainly not about to fund the prodigal son's latest (and, I hope, last) money-grab.

So go ahead. Ignore all the reviews and just find a copy of The Original of Laura. Flip through it. Read an index card or two: it loses what little mystique it may have had. Then close it. That's all you need to kill any lingering curiosity. You'll finally be able say you don't give a damn about it.