The hypnotic prose of Nightwood produces certain hallucinations via a profusion of personas and locations, encrypted codes perceived in a vain strive for the forward momentum of plot. It seems exhaustive and carnivalesque, like Ulysses . Like Ulysses , it is constantly bounding and unraveling onto itself in an ecstatic fusion; yet, unlike Ulysses , it’s stubborn loquacity doesn’t irritate me. I’ll keep mining through the text for charming hendiadys and possibly escaped meanings. P.S., should not even compare with Ulysses . I am as of this moment putting Joyce away and leaving only Barnes and the lean arabesque form of a woman on the table.