In this avant-garde novel, accrued phenomena, interior and exterior, are relentlessly applied to a defused ego. In three brief sequences, the protagonist Olt is conscious of a pain about-to-be (but never really) removed; misses an appointment (but it doesn't matter); looks forward to a swim as he collects major minutiae like a pack rat. Olt sees: ""sourball machines, jellybeans machines. . .: a sweatshop of six Negroes making earmuffs,"" etc. He reads: ""Police were looking for a man dressed as an exhumed corpse. . . A columnist wrote on the New Prostitution."" Olt fantasizes about nude girls steaming on snow and Olt plumbs for meaning: ""He looked into the eye of a fish and saw the image of a straining fisherman."" And there is Olt's vocation (not in demand): ""to build terrariums, repair sailboats, tag salmon, etc. . ."" In one way or another Olt rattles through, with a deadening barrage of Barthelmesimple sentences, most cliches of modern alienation fiction. An amusing possibility although its pursuit is generally enervating.