Djuna

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.



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