[In Nights in the Underground, the chatter in The Underground, a lesbian bar,] is so good-natured and dull that one wonders how someone as really bright as Blais could bother to be its chronicler.

The explanation may lie in our era of single-issue politics and ever-narrowing identities, within which the simple consciousness of being human is felt to be increasingly inadequate, and fulfillment is sought through all kinds of self-subdivision and specialization.

The camaraderie of the women is touching; and their falling in and out of love, their jealousies, their generosity, and—above all—their solidarity, are made poignant by the chronic impermanence of their relations with each other. One has the nagging suspicion that Blais would like to limit touching and poignant relationships to the special group she is dealing with here….

It is not conducive to clarity, either in a work of art or in a...