The character of Judith in Absalom, Absalom! is described as “cold” and “absolutely impenetrable” (a lot of fun at parties, this one), with an equally fetching physique to complete the package: “this small body with its air of curious and paradoxical awkwardness.” With her brother Henry, the provincial puritan, she has a “curious relationship.” (Or, as it is helpfully elaborated upon, a “curious and unusual relationship.”) When she looks at him, it is with “curious and profound intensity.”
She’s not the only one. When Quentin, our audience surrogate from Absalom!’s first page on, is in a serious conversation with his college roommate Shreve, they pause and “[look] at one another, curious and quiet and profoundly intent.” During the same exchange, Shreve also watches Quentin “with thoughtful and intent curiosity” and, later, “with intent detached speculation and curiosity.”
Perhaps it is Quentin’s style of speaking that invites these curious stares—“his voice [is] level, curious, a little dreamy.” Elsewhere, it is a “curious repressed calm voice.” (I say “elsewhere”—it’s actually in the same paragraph.) It is also a “flat, curiously dead voice.” (This, in all fairness, is 30 pages later.)
Other curiosities include characters sitting “in a curious quiet clump,” the “curious pleasures of the flesh,” a “curious lack of economy between cause and effect,” an unfortunate child “born into some curious disjoint of [his] father’s life,” “curious serene suspension,” and a “curious blend of savageness and pity.” There is “curious and outraged exaggeration” and “curious terrified yet implacable determination.” We meet “the curious and the vengeful.” Settings include “architecture [that is] a little curious, a little femininely flamboyant”—on page 88 we behold a “closed and curiously monastic doorway” and then, three pages later, “inscrutable and curiously lifeless doorways.”
Charles Bon, he of the phony grin and the dull foolishness (or foolhardy dullness, as the case may be), also has his own distinctive vocal style, “the bland and cryptic voice with something of secret and curious and unimaginable delights.” (“Secret and curious and unimaginable delights”? Is that the sort of voice that most people would describe as “bland”?*) One character has “something curious and strange in his face,” while the face of another is “quiet, reposed, curiously almost sullen.” One character finds himself in “a curious position”; one looks “curiously smaller than he actually was.”
Those seeking privacy try to “hide from the world’s curious looking”; those trying to repress painful historical memories are “talking not about the war yet all curiously enough (or perhaps not curiously at all) facing the South.” One character with a philosophical bent offers “a curious and apt commentary on the times,” while another waxes existential about life, “the curious factor of which is…either choice…leads to the same result.” At one point, Judith’s mother Ellen “did not know where her husband had gone and [was] not even conscious that she was not curious.” Which is to say, I guess, that she wasn’t thinking about what she wasn’t thinking about. I wonder what Descartes would make of that one?
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*It seems there is no aspect of Charles Bon’s character that can ever be depicted without repetition: He is described as “talking now, lazily, almost cryptically”; instances of his subtly corrupting influence on his friend Henry are “so brief as to be cryptic”; his voice is, as mentioned above, “bland and cryptic”; and, eleven lines later, “the mentor’s voice [is] still bland, pleasant, cryptic, postulating still”—and this is all in a single paragraph.