Rating: 
Summary: Let's hear it for purple prose
Review: Barnes makes beautiful sentences, paragraphs and, of course, novels as few others can. In reply to those who found the story convoluted and the poetic prose pretentious, or who pigeonholed the writing as stream-of-consciousness (which it is not): it's amazing how some people are proud to parade their weaknesses as readers. The puritanical cult of simplicity that was stuffed into our heads in high school tells us we mustn't enjoy style. Come off it, pick up a dictionary and join the English language in all its glory. Barnes' work is an adventure in reading.
Rating:
Summary: baroque splendor
Review: barnes' prose is some of the most voluptuous language that one can find. indeed, it is bach as word. and her characters' minds are luxriously deep, and as fascinatingly convulted as those of the macbeths. few have written so convincingly and precisely about the complexity of human intimacy. she, like all great minds, recognizes that intimacy is always and ever the final frontier (this includes the campaign for intimacy with self). and o'connor's thought on the protestant imagination rivals that of any philosopher of the modern religious noodle. this novel defines the terrain of the modern intellectual epidermis; it tickles the very pores of nuance, imploring them to dilate more widely. in it one not only meets with supple minds, one gets to see them thinking. the fugue of the post-kierkegaardian soul never sounded so like elizabethan pop. barnes' glorious, incisive mind weds donne with henry james. perhaps this book is not for tourist of literature. i dunno. don't care.
Rating:
Summary: One of the great prose novels of this century
Review: Djuna Barne's incredible incite and richness of language make this a must read. What power. A Freudian novel, Ego as day, Id as Night, wherein Robin and Nora take the ego is taken into the night and all the mysteries unfold, thus Matthew O'Conner talks about French and American nights. Also one of the great novels about addiction and the language of addiction. One can open to the chapter Watchman Tell Me of the Night and read from any page.
Rating: 
Summary: The Night Is A Hunter
Review: Djuna Barnes' short modernist novel Nightwood (1936) is one of the genuine odd ducks of 20th century literature. Written in an uneven, semi - comic, and baroque style, the book is more likely to impress young readers rather than older and more experienced individuals who have lost their appetite for decadent romantic entanglements. Nightwood is certainly an original work, and Barnes' vision of the factors shaping human destiny - especially time, heritage, and evolution - are uniquely expressed. But despite its fluidity of language, many of Barnes' seemingly brilliant observations concerning life, consciousness, and human suffering are more specious than acute, which is important, since Barnes' emotionally marooned cast is badly in need of answers, wisdom, and salvation.
Hiding under the text's antique lathering is a sparse, skeletal plot, one top heavy with philosophical speculations but reflecting little grasp of basic psychological truths about human nature. Nora Flood meets and falls destructively in love with passive - aggressive Robin Vote, a strange, corpse - eyed, and inexplicably charismatic woman who, despite marriage and motherhood, is spiritually, psychologically, and emotionally adrift in the world. When their affair evolves into a love triangle, Nora turns increasingly for advice to charlatan doctor and Greek chorus Matthew O'Connor, a poverty - stricken alcoholic who is pleasurably inclined towards homosexuality, transvestitism, and self - demoralization ("I'm a lady in no need of insults," "I was born as ugly as God dare premeditate"). Significantly, all of the book's characters are in some way stunted, crippled, or pathologically predisposed.
Barnes excels at dramatizing the failure of romantic love, especially the kind that displays active neurotic factors, elements of codependence, and spontaneous psychological transference. Those pages which detail Nora's isolation and sad obsession with her abandoning lover are deeply felt, haunting, and moving indeed.
In "The Squatter," Barnes spends an entire chapter fulfilling a personal vendetta by brilliantly depicting widow Jenny Petherbridge's status as a rapacious black hole and non - entity. Jenny is ugly ("she had a beaked head and the body, small, feeble, and ferocious, that somehow made one associate her with Judy," "only severed could any part of her been called "right"), stupid ("when anyone was witty about a contemporary event, she would look perplexed and a little dismayed"), incapable of establishing her own values ("Someone else's wedding ring was on her finger...the books in her library were other people's selections...her walls, her cupboards, her bureaux, were teeming with second - hand dealings with life...the words that fell from her mouth seemed to have been lent to her"), spiritually empty but power hungry ("she wanted to be the reason for everything and so was the cause of nothing"), and lacks poise, maturity, and dignity ("being one of those panicky little women, who, no matter what they put on, look like a child under penance," or, as O'Connor calls her, "a decaying comedy jester, the face on a fool's - stick, and with the smell about her of mouse - nests"). Barnes makes an excellent case for the argument that it is not the powerful that are to be feared, but the weak, frustrated, and incapable.
Robin the "somnambulist" is also lengthily described, largely via the use of symbols and metaphors: throughout the text, the boyish, bird - named Robin is described in animal, vegetable, and mineral terms. When first encountered, Robin, who is later recognized as a kindred spirit by a wild circus animal and a ferocious dog, is found lying unconscious in a small apartment crowded with a superabundance of plant life. Barnes describes Robin's abode as "a jungle trapped in a drawing room" and Robin as the "ration of the carnivorous flowers."
The flamboyant, limp - wristed ("his hands...he always carried like a dog who is walking on his hind legs"), dirty - kneed, rhetoric - spewing Dr. Matthew O'Connor, the book's most famous character, is a figure of high camp whom today's readers are more likely to find mildly distasteful rather than shocking. O'Connor is given an entire long chapter in which to pontificate ("Watchman, What Of The Night?"), though the chapter reflects badly on the wounded Nora, whose continuous exclamations of "But what am I to do?" and "What will become of her?" and "How will I stand it?" reduce her from the genuinely tormented human being of earlier chapters to a one - dimensional cartoon damsel in distress.
Intelligent, perceptive readers are likely to find one passage in every five that sounds profound and poetically illuminating like the others, but means absolutely nothing on careful examination (for example: "Your body is coming to it, your are forty and the body has a politic too, and a life of its own that you like to think is yours. I heard a spirit new once, but I knew it was a mystery eternally moving outward and on, and not my own.") Despite Barnes' often incredible use of language, the ultimate effect of Nightwood is one of shallowness, slickness, and almost hysterical distance from its own primary sources. When compared to other literary books written by women also primarily focused on women, such as the five novels of Jean Rhys or Muriel Spark's The Driver's Seat, Nightwood seems sketchy, brittle, and, as one critic said about Isak Dinesen's Seven Gothic Tales, seemingly more concerned with mystification than with genuine mystery. Though bold and intrepid as a beautiful young big city journalist, and later as an expatriate modernist writer living among the Parisian glitterati, Barnes closed the door on the rest of the world in very early middle age, and became a notorious New York City recluse known primarily for bitterness and explosive outbursts of anger. Readers of Nightwood, with its essential focus on theoretical, airy philosophy rather than psychological home truths, may find clues as to how Barnes's life went sorrowfully wrong.
Rating:
Summary: Night & The Autodidact
Review: Djuna Barnes' short modernist novel Nightwood (1936) is one of the genuine odd ducks of 20th century literature. Written in an uneven, semi - comic, and baroque style, the book is more likely to impress young readers rather than older and more experienced individuals who have lost their appetite for decadent romantic entanglements. Nightwood is certainly an original work, and Barnes' vision of the factors shaping human destiny - especially time, heritage, and evolution - are uniquely expressed. But despite its fluidity of language, many of Barnes' seemingly brilliant observations concerning life, consciousness, and human suffering are more specious than acute, which is important, since Barnes' emotionally marooned cast is badly in need of answers, wisdom, and salvation. Hiding under the text's antique lathering is a sparse, skeletal plot, one top heavy with philosophical speculations but reflecting little grasp of basic psychological truths about human nature. Nora Flood meets and falls destructively in love with passive - aggressive Robin Vote, a strange, corpse - eyed, and inexplicably charismatic woman who, despite marriage and motherhood, is spiritually, psychologically, and emotionally adrift in the world. When their affair evolves into a love triangle, Nora turns increasingly for advice to charlatan doctor and Greek chorus Matthew O'Connor, a poverty - stricken alcoholic who is pleasurably inclined towards homosexuality, transvestitism, and self - demoralization ("I'm a lady in no need of insults," "I was born as ugly as God dare premeditate"). Significantly, all of the book's characters are in some way stunted, crippled, or pathologically predisposed. Barnes excels at dramatizing the failure of romantic love, especially the kind that displays active neurotic factors, elements of codependence, and spontaneous psychological transference. Those pages which detail Nora's isolation and sad obsession with her abandoning lover are deeply felt, haunting, and moving indeed. In "The Squatter," Barnes spends an entire chapter fulfilling a personal vendetta by brilliantly depicting widow Jenny Petherbridge's status as a rapacious black hole and non - entity. Jenny is ugly ("she had a beaked head and the body, small, feeble, and ferocious, that somehow made one associate her with Judy," "only severed could any part of her been called "right"), stupid ("when anyone was witty about a contemporary event, she would look perplexed and a little dismayed"), incapable of establishing her own values ("Someone else's wedding ring was on her finger...the books in her library were other people's selections...her walls, her cupboards, her bureaux, were teeming with second - hand dealings with life...the words that fell from her mouth seemed to have been lent to her"), spiritually empty but power hungry ("she wanted to be the reason for everything and so was the cause of nothing"), and lacks poise, maturity, and dignity ("being one of those panicky little women, who, no matter what they put on, look like a child under penance," or, as O'Connor calls her, "a decaying comedy jester, the face on a fool's - stick, and with the smell about her of mouse - nests"). Barnes makes an excellent case for the argument that it is not the powerful that are to be feared, but the weak, frustrated, and incapable. Robin the "somnambulist" is also lengthily described, largely via the use of symbols and metaphors: throughout the text, the boyish, bird - named Robin is described in animal, vegetable, and mineral terms. When first encountered, Robin, who is later recognized as a kindred spirit by a wild circus animal and a ferocious dog, is found lying unconscious in a small apartment crowded with a superabundance of plant life. Barnes describes Robin's abode as "a jungle trapped in a drawing room" and Robin as the "ration of the carnivorous flowers." The flamboyant, limp - wristed ("his hands...he always carried like a dog who is walking on his hind legs"), dirty - kneed, rhetoric - spewing Dr. Matthew O'Connor, the book's most famous character, is a figure of high camp whom today's readers are more likely to find mildly distasteful rather than shocking. O'Connor is given an entire long chapter in which to pontificate ("Watchman, What Of The Night?"), though the chapter reflects badly on the wounded Nora, whose continuous exclamations of "But what am I to do?" and "What will become of her?" and "How will I stand it?" reduce her from the genuinely tormented human being of earlier chapters to a one - dimensional cartoon damsel in distress. Intelligent, perceptive readers are likely to find one passage in every five that sounds profound and poetically illuminating like the others, but means absolutely nothing on careful examination (for example: "Your body is coming to it, your are forty and the body has a politic too, and a life of its own that you like to think is yours. I heard a spirit new once, but I knew it was a mystery eternally moving outward and on, and not my own.") Despite Barnes' often incredible use of language, the ultimate effect of Nightwood is one of shallowness, slickness, and almost hysterical distance from its own primary sources. When compared to other literary books written by women also primarily focused on women, such as the five novels of Jean Rhys or Muriel Spark's The Driver's Seat, Nightwood seems sketchy, brittle, and, as one critic said about Isak Dinesen's Seven Gothic Tales, seemingly more concerned with mystification than with genuine mystery. Though bold and intrepid as a beautiful young big city journalist, and later as an expatriate modernist writer living among the Parisian glitterati, Barnes closed the door on the rest of the world in very early middle age, and became a notorious New York City recluse known primarily for bitterness and explosive outbursts of anger. Readers of Nightwood, with its essential focus on theoretical, airy philosophy rather than psychological home truths, may find clues as to how Barnes's life went sorrowfully wrong.
Rating:
Summary: Enthralling
Review: First, I should tell you what Nightwood isn't. It's not acelebration of love between women, or of the glamour of Paris, or ofmodernism's traditionally spare aesthetic. It is, however, a wonderful book, which will probably try your patience but will repay your efforts with the pleasure of reading some of the most wonderful writing to have been produced this century. Djuna Barnes, born in the US, spent some twenty years in Europe, during which she wrote innovative journalism, a novel (Ryder), short stories, poetry and plays, and, slowly, the autobiographical fictional narrative that was finally published as Nightwood in 1936. The novel was hard to place, and finally published by no less of a modernist luminary than T.S. Eliot, then working at Faber and Faber. Barnes' novel chronicles a love affair between two women: Nora Flood, the sometime "puritan," and Robin Vote, a cipher-like "somnambule" -- sleepwalker -- who roams the streets of Paris looking for -- well, it's not quite clear, but it's a fruitless quest she's on. Nora finds herself roaming the streets too, looking for Robin, but, like most of the characters of the novel, she bumps up against Dr Matthew O'Connor instead. O'Connor, an unlicensed doctor from the Barbary Coast, dominates much of the novel with his astounding barrage of anecdote, offering a stream of stories that all point, ultimately, to the sublime misery of romantic obsession. The love story (if it can even be called that) is framed by the history of Felix Volkbein, a self-styled Baron who marries Robin early on, and whose family tree provides the structure on which the rest of this dawdling narrative hangs. But nothing I say here can give you a sense of Barnes' dense, lyrical prose, and quite amazingly complex and beautiful writing: you simply have to puzzle over the book yourself to experience perhaps the most idiosyncratic novel produced by an American writer between the wars. It's a dark, melancholy story, with much detailed description of the decaying expatriate lifestyle Barnes herself (sometimes) enjoyed. The final chapter of the book has been regarded as controversial, opaque, and/or vaguely pornographic: Eliot wanted to exclude it when the novel was first published. It might certainly surprise you, and perhaps dismay you if you want to see all threads neatly tied together at the end. But I've read this book several times, and have never regretted it for a moment.
Rating:
Summary: Style and Tragedy
Review: I enjoyed the review by Eric Karl Anderson. But I'd like to add a few things about Anderson's identity interpretation on the five characters that thread 'Nightwood' and its meanings. In the introduction of the book T.S Eliot wrote a preface which prepared the readers from possible misunderstandings for Djuna Barnes brilliant story written in prose was a work of 'creative imagination' and not 'philosophical treatise'. I read it twice, the second time believing it to be a different book. From the beginning Barnes persuades the reader to dislike Robin for her strangeness; living but not present, a turmoil in the cold that disrupted the farse of other characters reality when she touched their lives. Robin and Doctor. Matthew are antagonists. They represent opposite dimensions of the self. The Doctor, although a brilliant mind, accurate in understanding the misery of Man is never the less a failure, in bondage with humility and the truth. In the end he curses Robin for existing; having transformed also him, Nora, Felix and Jenny into doomed creatures in a mysterious and horrific sense of how small their lifes became. In the chapter Go Down, Matthew, the Doctor and Nora could not hold a conversation. They spoke to the readers, not listening to each other. Their lives like a ring closing in their personal pain, existing only in the past, like dummies tragically possessed by death. Robin killed what they proclaimed as birthright, symbolically how she killed son Guido, who prayed to the Virgin by calling the statue Mamma. Loved the last chapter. I, that despised Robins personal distinction of morality was able to finally understand her. Her nature made her different; nor human nor a beast. A creature like the night that drifted 'sonambule' through life. No other human soul could be so free, so they love her but it's not Robin they want, but who she is. The misery in understanding it was not in reach. Djuna Barnes also tells a parallel tale of obsession for an image of love. Robin is that woman like an iman, possessed with a childs memory, but that causes a certain attraction to fear. In 'Bow Down' the writer evoked that it was easier to love a lion for its tamer. The story, and finally Robin were irresistable to my imagination. There is a tempting invitation from the writer to participate for the lonely souls (they become) speak to us, and Robin unaltered by their existance leaves us (readers) out. The book is brilliant. Like many readers have stated, it is a very hard book to fully comprehend in its various contexts. I advice those to wait for an appropriate moment in their lives to read this book. It answers many questions if we search, and dig between words and the quality of a genuine thinker, such as Djuna Barnes.
Rating: 
Summary: Heavy
Review: I guess you've gotta be in the right frame of mind to read this. It's poetic, much too poetic for a quick-read kind of book. It's thorough and deep and I enjoy reading that parts that I can understand! For a first read, it's taken a long time to get through. I can't wait to read it a second time, though.
Rating:
Summary: Heavy
Review: I guess you've gotta be in the right frame of mind to read this. It's poetic, much too poetic for a quick-read kind of book. It's thorough and deep and I enjoy reading that parts that I can understand! For a first read, it's taken a long time to get through. I can't wait to read it a second time, though.
Rating: 
Summary: Inaccessible and Overrated
Review: I'll say right up front that this is not the kind of book I would choose to read, and I never would have if it hadn't been a selection of my book club. And when I read T.S. Elliot's introduction attempting to explain how it's a new form of novel and how one needs several readings to truly appreciate the wonderful language and characters, I knew I was in for a bumpy read. What can I say? I don't like stream of consciousness writing, I don't like novels that don't have a strong story, and I don't like poetry, therefore I hated, hated, hated this book. Certainly there is some evocative language, but I couldn't really enjoy it as it was buried in paragraph-long sentences. As for the notion that it's some masterpiece of depicting obsession or addiction--give me a break. It's far too inaccessible and difficult to serve that function, I can think of half a dozen books that do a better job and aren't a trial to read. Fortunately, I can report that my feelings were generally shared by the rest of my book group, including those who love poetry and stream of consciousness writing. A few people also mentioned an anti-Jewish element in the book, which, when combined with Elliot's well-known prejudices make one wonder.
|
