The Unoriginal of Laurel
Nabo’s dying wish was for the index cards of his last unfinished novel to be burned. (Reminds me of Monet, who would often impulsively burn his canvases in a bonfire of doubt n’ derision.) His wife said yes; his son said no — heh, sounds like Invitation to a Castration. The book is enormous (+25lb. paper stock, grand margins, etc.) and doesn’t do much except make a publishing event out of nothing. I also think of the “original scroll” version of On the Road, that sans line break pre-edited thing of thang — or the annual new releases of our elder laurelled authors whose books get thinner and thinner with margins wider and wider. I mean, if it looks like a book it probably is one, right? This is the seductive quality of that shiny hardcover, that new book smell. Meanwhile, nobody else gets published. I got an idea: release Saramago’s Blindness in braille, yah, now somebody give me some publishing job on some floor in some building in New York City, where angry people go to live and sad people stay to die. Good times.
Tags: The Original of Laura