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221 pages, Paperback
First published September 30, 1939
‘A master of verbal burlesque, a connoisseur of psychological blackmail, Gombrowicz is one of the profoundest of later moderns, with one of the lightest touches.’ — John Updike.
'He was a French eighteenth-century master. And this seat? This is what's known as a Savonarola chair, fifteenth century, one of the world's first armchairs. You should know that in those days even ordinary chairs were almost unheard of. People sat on chests of a kind, like this one splendid, this is Francis the First, or on benches set into the wall, to which tables were brought up. You see, that chest is as early as Gothic. How on earth did these items stray all the way here?’
‘‘How on earth can you sleep like that?! — But she's also sleeping without any care for herself,” he muttered. As if she had no self-respect. As if it were all the same to her if her head were lower than her feet, or vice versa... And yet — ‘She’s sleeping in exactly the same way I do!’’

What, meanwhile, had been happening at the castle- that age-old giant of brick and stone whose swamp-skirted tower loomed formidably in the gathering dusk, and within whose proud and massive walls, guardians of bygone pomps and the traces of a vanished splendour, passion, fear, and madness held sway?
She dropped back to let him pass. Then, from behind, she enfolded his silhouette in a look that was not hers. It seemed to have no object, and it was uncharacteristically fond. Instantly she felt herself melting, drowning, engulfed and swept away by her own gaze. A hot wave of emotion broke over her, and she pressed a hand to her throbbing heart.
Indeed, they were entirely at Maja’s mercy, or rather her lack of it.