No plus ultra experiment in surrealistic farce -- as phantasmagorical as it intends to be, and as bewildering as it is bewildered. It outdafts Dali, and quite honestly it strikes me as singularly unfunny. The publisher's description defines Mr. Thwing as the ""Archetype of the Submerged Male"". He is aninoffensive, inconspicuous little man who runs a boarding house, dawdling and dreaming the days away, and tormented by one problem, to marry or not to marry. You meet various bizarre tenants, you stumble into a murder that turns out not to be a murder, you meet his two sirens. Here and there a funny line -- a palpable hit on men's and women's frailties. But all in all, it's confusing rather than amusing.