The question of whether or not to follow an author’s wishes regarding the fate of his work after his death is a difficult and painful one. There is the famous case of Kafka, who instructed his friend Max Brod to destroy all his manuscripts (including those of the great novels, which were not published in Kafka’s lifetime), an instruction which Brod ignored, to the great enrichment of world literature. A writer on his deathbed – or, indeed, off it – is perhaps not the best judge of how his work should be treated. Philip Larkin chose not to publish in his lifetime a number of poems, at least half a dozen of which are superb and one of which, And now the leaves suddenly lose strength, is a masterpiece. Could we countenance such beautiful things being kept from the general reader?

That Nabokov, before he died, did not destroy what he had written of his final novel is surely an indication that he wanted it to live; likewise, Véra Nabokov, the most vigilant keeper of the flame of her husband’s writings, let the fragment survive, so she too must have thought it worth preserving. If I were Dmitri Nabokov, which thank goodness I am not, I would have the fragment typed up and given to two or three reputable and sympathetic critics – eg, James Wood, Harold Bloom – and perhaps also a writer or two – John Updike, Martin Amis – for their opinion on whether it should be published. Personally, I would very much like to see what Nabokov was working on at the end, though my expectations would not be immensely high. The late novels are a steep falling off from the work of his greatest period – The Defence, Speak, Memory, Lolita, Pale Fire – though of course there are magical things in them. A great writer is always worth reading, even at his worst.

Interview by Francesca Steele

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