When the telephone rang she'd already turned away, catching breath, and going for it in the kitchen she looked up to the clock: not yet five. Had it stopped? The day was gone with the sun dropped behind the mountain, or what passed for one here rising up from the river.
Gaddis evades the typical obligation to make definite statements. "What time is it?" the reader asks. Gaddis introduces the possibility that it is "not yet five," only to immediately cast the notion into doubt with "Had it stopped?" The same gambit happens with the mountain. "What is that thing we see in the distance?" The answer Gaddis gives is *shrug*.
Without letting on to any definite sense of time or space, Gaddis still gives the reader enough to go on. The time must be one that is mistakable for "not yet five," and the thing in the distance must be mistakable for a mountain. In spite of the wiggle room he leaves, Gaddis still pins himself down to a specific realm of possibilities. The mountain can't be a crabcake, for example.
This narrative style is aggressive and unnerving but makes the audience nervous enough to want to resolve the uncertainty. There's more, though; even if the reader knows he's being fucked with, there's very little to be done about it except to try to win Gaddis' game on his own terms, by prying some meaning from a text that pretty much overtly says, "I'm not giving you a damn thing."
See also.
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