Nightwood [Paperback]

The book is ultimately depressing, a sad portrayal of humanity as a race of beings who, though they like to think they are capable of reason and controlling their own choices, are truly nothing more than complex parasites drawn to their host. At its best, Nightwood has all the makings of a great read, but those moments are few and far between. Barnes has written in true T.S. Eliot style and has masked everything important in a 'stream' of B.S.

If you want to feel as though you are sitting in a room with two people who are talking about something that you could not possibly care less about... then read this book. Otherwise, stay away. Nightwood is unbearably cerebral.

The book is ultimately depressing... a sad portrayal of humanity as a race of beings who, though they like to think they are capable of reason and controlling their own choices, are truly nothing more than complex parasites drawn to their host. At its best, Nightwood has all the makings of a great read, but those moments are few and far between. Barnes has written in true T.S. Eliot style and has masked everything important in a 'stream' of B.S.

If you want to feel as though you are sitting in a room with two people who are talking about something that you could not possibly care less about, then read this book. Otherwise, stay away. Nightwood is unbearably cerebral.

Another reviewer said this wasn't a 'celebration of lesbian love'--this much is true. What makes this book truly remarkable is that it *doesn't* set any boundaries--hearts are fickle, hearts are cruel, and every character in the novel is inflicted with his/her own brand of emotional anxiety. Barnes makes no distinction between 'lesbian' love and any other--it is as normal, and as abnormal, as any other human affection. That alone makes this book a classic (but of course, the writing too is intoxicating). In fact, what is truly surprising (to me, at least!) is that despite her exquisite elegance, Djuna Barnes manages to take such a no-nonsense approach to human emotions. She never seeks to simplify anything--and makes her work difficult for the reader in the most rewarding of ways. (I mean that she doesn't let us get away with pre-conceptions or romantic illusions. She manages to make the imperfect reality as arresting as the myth of perfection.) Most of us, in our lives, don't *really* know what we're doing, or what we feel. Barnes makes her characters real by putting them through the same confusing maelstrom of experiences--where one emotion often morphs into another--love into indifference, respect into insecurity, and so on. There are no answers--there is only endurance--endurance of others, endurance of ourselves.

I don't want to be more specific and give out details of the plot. This book has to be experienced to be believed...