"Gee, no thanks mister, I don't need a ride to the candy store."You’ve probably seen, heard or read about Vladimir Nabokov’s son deciding to publish his late father’s last “novel”—thirty years after his death and three decades after his father had instructed his family to destroy it.

The “not quite finished manuscript” entitled The Origin of Laura was actually a set of 138 index cards. Now those cards will be published as a matter of public interest and financial, I mean, scholarly importance.

I have mixed feelings about this, because hypocritically, if another Tupac album were discovered in the dustbin of some So-Cal recording studio, I’d jump on it. But Nakokov didn’t want this book to be seen in a state of undress. It doesn’t seem right, no matter how many literary purists want to get their greedy hands on it like Humbert on Dolores Haze.

I’m not a big Nabokov fan, so maybe I’m just biased about the whole thing. Trivially though, he did live in my former hometown of Ashland, Oregon for a summer, back in 1953––waaaay before my time. Ashland is where he finished Lolita, collected butterflies and undoubtedly creeped out the local babysitters.

But back to unfinished business, would you want your rough draft published posthumously? Your diary? Your personal letters? Your email?