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ReviewsEditorial Review - Kirkus Reviews Copyright (c) VNU Business Media, Inc. As the editor of this new version of Bames's 1936 erotic classic avers, ""the story of Nightwood's composition and coming to print is an extraordinary story."" Unfortunately, Plumb (English/Pennsylvania State) is not the one to tell it. Her apparatus-heavy edition, while definitive for scholars, will only confuse readers looking for a reliable text of what Barnes wrote. Despite all the lists of emendations, textual notes, hyphenations, and historical collations, it's never very clear exactly what was taken out from Barnes's version by her friend Emily Coleman and her editor, T.S. Eliot. While Coleman, an early and steadfast advocate of a book rejected by countless publishers, was motivated by aesthetic concerns, Eliot feared the censor. Barnes, for her part, was willing to do almost anything to get her poetic narrative into print. That she herself never restored it to this version during her lifetime suggests she may well have been satisfied with the later editions. In any case, the reproductions of surviving early manuscript pages will satisfy scholars who might otherwise be insulted by the elementary ""explanatory annotations"" (for ""Goethe,"" ""Uffizi,"" ""Voltaire,"" ""Morpheus,"" and so on). Common terms and phrasesalchemy asked Baron Baronin beast began bird body Broadback brought cafe called carriage child chin church coming crying damned dark dead death Djuna Djuna Barnes doctor doll dream dress drink ex-priest eyes face fear feet Felix forward Frau Mann fury Gertrude Stein girl glass Guido hair hand head heart heavy Hedvig holding JEANETTE WINTERSON Jenny Kabyle knees knew Ladies Almanack laughing legs listening lived looking lover Marseilles Matthew Matthew O'Connor melan mind misery monocle mother moved Neurasthenia never Nighrwood night Nora's O'Connor Paris racial memory Robin Vote seemed seen shadow sitting sleep smile someone spoke standing stood stopped street suddenly T. S. Eliot talk Tangier tears tell thing thought took touched trouble turned Vienna voice Wait walking weeping window woman women Places mentioned in this book Maps KML
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From Google ScholarScripts, Sequences, and Stories: Elements of a Postclassical ...David Herman - 1997 - Publications of the Modern Language Association of America LonelinessHildegard E Peplau - 1955 - The American Journal of Nursing Nervous landscapesDENIS R BYRNE - Journal of Social Archaeology Forbidden LoveElizabeth Wilson - 1984 - Feminist Studies Popular passagesRousseau, she seemed to lie in a jungle trapped in a drawing room (in the apprehension of which the walls have made their escape), thrown in among the carnivorous flowers as their ration; the set, the property of an unseen dompteur, half lord, half promoter, over which one expects to hear the strains of an orchestra of woodwind render a serenade which will popularize the wilderness. Page 38 The stuff of the tights was no longer a covering, it was herself; the span of the tightly stitched crotch was so much her own flesh that she was as unsexed as a doll. Page 16 We wash away our sense of sin, and what does that bath secure us? Sin, shining bright and hard. In what does a Latin bathe? True dust. We have made the literal error. We have used water, we are thus too sharply reminded. A European gets out of bed with a disorder that holds the balance. The layers of his deed can be traced back to the last leaf and the good slug be found creeping. L'Echo de Paris and his bed sheets were run off the same press. One may read in both the travail life has had with him... Page 96 Very well - what is this love we have for the invert, boy or girl? It was they who were spoken of in every romance that we ever read. The girl lost, what is she but the Prince found? The Prince on the white horse that we have always been seeking. Page 145 Such a woman is the infected carrier of the past: before her the structure of our head and jaws ache - we feel that we could eat her, she who is eaten death returning, for only then do we put our face close to the blood on the lips of our forefathers.24 Barnes... Page 41 When the time came that Nora was alone most of the night and part of the day, she suffered from the personality of the house, the punishment of those who collect their lives together. Unconsciously at first, she went about disturbing nothing; then she became aware that her soft and careful movements were the outcome of an unreasoning fear— if she disarranged anything Robin might become confused— might lose the scent of home. Love becomes the deposit of the heart, analogous in all degrees to the... Page 64 In the old days I was possibly a girl in Marseilles thumping the dock with a sailor, and perhaps it's that memory that haunts me. The wise men say that the remembrance of things past is all that we have for a future, and am I to blame if I've turned up this time as I shouldn't have been, when it was a high soprano I wanted, and deep corn curls to my bum, with a womb as big as the king's kettle, and a bosom as high as the bowsprit of a fishing schooner? Page 97 Old Europe': aristocracy, nobility, royalty. . . . He felt that the great past might mend a little if he bowed low enough, if he succumbed and gave homage." Immediately after seeing Robin, Felix confesses to the doctor that he "wished a son who would feel as he felt about the 'great past. Page 12 When she fell in love it was with a perfect fury of accumulated dishonesty; she became instantly a dealer in second-hand and therefore incalculable emotions. As, from the solid archives of usage, she had stolen or appropriated the dignity of speech, so she appropriated the most passionate love that she knew, Nora's for Robin. Page 75 The perfume that her body exhaled was of the quality of that earth-flesh, fungi, which smells of captured dampness and yet is so dry, overcast with the odour of oil of amber, which is an inner malady of the sea, making her seem as if she had invaded a sleep incautious and entire. Her flesh was the texture of plant life, and beneath it one sensed a frame, broad, porous and sleep-worn, as if sleep were a decay fishing her beneath the visible surface. Page 38 Other editions
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