European critics have compared this book favorably with Kafka and Ulysses, presumably because it records A Day in One Man's Subconscious Life, surely not for its style or meaning. Quinte, the protagonist, who all too lengthily and obscurely discourses on his private problems and whereabouts, sounds frequently like a paranoid schizophrenic. At a soccer game, he remarks, ""All was hatred in the urticating arena of uncomputed time."" Since it is generally difficult to tell where he is objectively, his subjective wrath, confused philosophic outpourings and inner displacement appear to have no relation to any reality except perhaps the author's inner life. There are a few scenes where this disjointed effect does work, but most of it should have been cut drastically. A first novel, with some indications of possible future power, it suffers badly from self-indulgent, super-sensitive ramblings. More experimental than successful.