Years ago, Jane Weatherby had a torrid affair with John Pomfret, the
husband of her best friend. Divorces ensued. World War II happened.
Prewar partying gave way to postwar austerity, and Jane and John's
now-grown children, Philip and Mary, both as serious and sober as their
parents were not, seem earnestly bent on marriage, which John and Jane
consider a mistake. The two old lovers conspire against the two young
lovers, and nothing turns out quite as expected.
Nothing, like the closely related Doting, is a book that is almost
entirely composed in dialogue, since in these late novels nothing so
interested Green as how words resist, twist, and expose our intentions;
how they fail us, lead us on, make fools of us, and may, in spite of
ourselves, even save us, at least for a time. Nothing spills over with
the bizarre and delicious comedy and poetry of human incoherence.