The Importance of Preservation; Finding a Gem.

“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. Dmitri Nabokov-the Russian novelist's only surviving heir-has preserved for posterity the last piece of writing of one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century.”
--E-mail advertisement from corner book store in Boulder.


I was not sure how to feel about the above when I opened my email box this morning.

. . .

I was first introduced to Nabokov's work as a college student, assigned to read Lolita for a core class. Over-worked and forced to make sacrifices on assignments, I set it aside and, for lack of a better term, bull-shat my way through the class (Sorry, Professor Satler) by making constructive, out-of-the-box inquiries to direct the conversation away from the actual text and into a neutral territory I could participate in and get my A. It worked, though in retrospect I never did fully appreciate the mind-blowing piece of literature I'd basically raped (no pun intended.) It wasn't until this year--sitting at my coffeehouse job in Sheboygan, bored out of my mind, grasping for anything enriching for my brain to feed on--that I picked up my dusty copy of Lolita and sat, captivated, for three full days until every delicious metaphor had been licked clean. (I was almost fired for this. It was worth it.)

My first week in Boulder, when the sun still hung high and summer glazed the smiles of every downtown shopper like a balm, I put on my favorite blue sundress and headed out to explore. Never having been away from home before, I was feeling the sharp twinge I now know is called "homesickness," and needed a distraction; something new; or, rather more appropriately, something bordering familiar. Rounding a corner, I caught the old-fashioned gold lettering plated against the emerald-green of a false-front building: "BOOKSTORE."

I will never forget walking in those doors. It was the first time since my lover had gotten on the plane back to Wisconsin that my heart leapt into my throat, coaxing me forward: Three full levels of floor-to-ceiling shelves, hardwood floors, oriental rugs, lush armchairs, and a vintage charm the romantic in me thirsts for. I climbed the first flight of stairs to a room lit by a frosted-glass, cylindrical skylight, plopped myself (clean dress be damned) onto the floor in the center of the poetry section, and enclosed myself within a wall of stacked familiarity: Billy Collins; Robert Frost; Anne Micheals; Mark Strand. I gazed upon the titles adoringly as if they were the foreheads of many lovers. I was home.

. . .

Homesickness is a tricky thing. For me, it snuck up on me and hid so well beneath my initial elation that when the stardust cleared form my eyes and reality set in, I could not define it. There was a strange, burning emptiness. I found myself, in dreams, sitting at my Grandmother’s kitchen table, bathed in light from her window, drinking weak coffee from china teacups. Light caught in her hair, spinning it into spider webs. Her hands moved over my own lovingly and felt like soft tissue, warm and comforting and familiar. Every morning for a week I woke to a tear-soaked pillow, and didn’t know why.

. . .

If there is one thing I brought in with me from Wisconsin in excess, it is books; I rarely get rid of the ones I've read and adored. There is something about the way a good book teaches and offers an experience that the sensitive side of my nature equates to friendship. I took each and every “friend” I’d ever made, put them in plastic bins, and shipped them to Colorado with me in the same way that I’ve kept and preserved every tangible memory of my grandmother, who passed three years ago. I could easily fill an entire room with the above mentioned artifacts (I’m sure my roommates are thrilled).

It is this perspective, I suppose, that made me halt at the above bulletin about Nabokov’s book. I went to the store, as I do most days after work. I held the book in my hands, fingering the cover. The thirsty reader in me, of course, felt her mouth water at the mention of a book—a SECRET book—available for the first time from an author she thus far respected greatly. The romantic in me, however, took a step back—pursed her lips. The thought of this writer’s wishes having been deliberately disrespected by his kin put a bad taste in her mouth—a familiar one. She knew how she would feel if her own manuscripts, not edited to her approval, were released to the masses; she was all too familiar with the haunting ache of knowing a deceased loved one’s wishes were not properly carried out.

I smiled, closed my eyes, had a short moment of silence.
I put the book back on the shelf.