As one of those who claimed that "literary history has more of a claim on an unfinished work than its author," let me offer the following, the ending of Chapter 35 of Ada, or Ardor, as evidence. 
 
. . . about the rapture of her identity. The asses who might
really think that in the starlight of eternity, my, Van Veen's,
and her, Ada Veen's, conjunction, somewhere in North Amer-
ica, in the nineteenth century represented but one trillionth of
a trillionth part of a pinpoint planet's significance can bray
ailleurs, ailleurs, ailleurs (the English word would not supply
the onomatopoeic element; old Veen is kind), because the rap-

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ture of her identity, placed under the microscope of reality
(which is the only reality), shows a complex system of those
subtle bridges which the senses traverse—laughing, embraced,
throwing flowers in the air—between membrane and brain, and
221.05 which always was and is a form of memory, even at the moment
of its perception. I am weak. I write badly. I may die tonight.
My magic carpet no longer skims over crown canopies and
gaping nestlings, and her rarest orchids. Insert.
 

While Ada may be a complete work, it is perhaps, as has been written elsewhere, one of VN's weakest.   It is weak only as a whole.  A passage of such ineffable beauty as the one just quoted, is worth any number of "completed novels," because it says something that has never been said before, or at least never so well.  (VN was conscious of this, I think, hence the concluding disclaimer and the ruse that it is almost an afterthought written on a "writing pad" for insertion.)  If The Original of Laura, as I suspect, contains even a few pages that can stand with this, the world deserves to read them.