(Edward Hopper, Night Windows, 1928).

She sends me a sidelong and clearly ironic look: “You know what you make me think of. Of the ostrich that that buries its head in the sand and doesn't want to see anything." She's right this time , and I say nothing for a moment , thinking it over . I tell myself that all my craving to know, to know everything, has, at the first hurdle, shown itself to be that quality that goes under the name of forward flight, fear of knowing masked under a proclaimed determination to leave no stone unturned.

This novel is fodder for psychologists, as [a:Harry Mulisch|44694|Harry Mulisch|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1240151754p2/44694.jpg] would say. Or quoting Dr Abbott in Fawlty towers "My gosh, there's enough material here for an entire conference"!

Quite reminiscent of [b:Contempt|67141|Contempt|Alberto Moravia|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1657549081l/67141._SY75_.jpg|2257072] in themes, characters and psychological intensity, hoping to write a review of this soon, or at least dream one. In the meantime, The Not-Knowing is stuck on repeat in my mind.