At one point, a character observes, “I had an image of her, but that is not the same thing. An image is a stop the mind makes between uncertainties. I had gathered, of course, a good deal from you, and later, after she went away, from others, but this only strengthened my confusion. The more we learn of a person, the less we know.”
How much can we know a person, and how much can we know a piece of writing? The more I read on, the less I felt I knew, and yet Nightwood was entrancing. What language, what lovely set pieces. It begs to be reread, but I suspect another reading, three more, will yield only more questions.
