Or, to add a Janeite's touchstone to the mix: "Yes, novels … or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language" (Northanger Abbey, of course)—except in Bartoszyńska's oeuvre of estrangement, it is in languages teeming with paradox, disjunction, anguish. In this flight through Gombrowicz, with a tiny but pivotal detour through Lyotard (on Wittgenstein), to set up Beckett, Bartoszyńska stakes Form with a capital "F" as "a kind of fiction within reality, defined by language" (111), or "some kind of abstract realm that turns out to be an illumination of forces at work in reality itself" (113), "the sinister physical force of Form," whereby "Józio increasingly submits to Form," leading to "Józio's entrapment in Form" (111). (Coteaching at NYU with the art historian Dipti Khera and tracing her elaborate investigations of the mostly eighteenth-century and startlingly radiant paintings of royal Udaipur have changed my own account of Enlightenment.) In the November 30, 2022 online issue of The Baffler, the novelist Lucy Ives, whose philosophical fictions I teach and admire, champions (like Bartoszyńska) "The Weak Novel" as "an inappropriate, indispensable form." ...weak identification, or even total disidentification, with its own type or genre" is likewise for Ives its most heroic quality, what "rather than being destined for failure, is in fact fundamental for the flourishing of the novel form."