The lovely title of this book comes from the philosopher David Hume. The question he posed was this: if a man grew up familiar with every shade of blue but one, would he be able to recognise the hue in a chart of blues, or would it register only as a blank? In other words, can the intellect supply information, or may we know things only through the senses?
Dwelling too long on this sort of problem famously sends people mad. Hume himself suffered a breakdown, after which he sensibly made it his business to get out more. In this novel, two of the three people central to the story have experienced, or are experiencing, psychiatric problems, while another important but peripheral character spends the duration locked in a loony bin. Of these first, one is a philosopher, the other a Frenchman engaged in translating Hume’s essays.
This is rarefied stuff.
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