An extended if prolapsed memoir in nco-fictional form, a destitute gig (one of Mr. Williams' favorite words) with nothing to be salvaged. Kenneth Tynan once regretted Williams' ""nose for incompleteness"" as a playwright--his fiction has always been flimsy. Now the incompleteness yields to incoherence--more than that of Moise (she's a painter) who has left the world of reason. Mostly this records the assorted memories of a Southern writer--failed at 30, a homosexual who had been a ""little library queen"" back in Alabama, who traveled up to New York and at fifteen had his one real love with a light-skinned Negro (the link with Moise). He writes everything down, compulsively, in his small Blue Jay notebooks, which are filled with auto/homoerotic notations (the ""delicious ejection of the come of creation down a washbowl drain""). When he runs out of Blue Jays, he uses old rejection slips for his unsolicited manuscripts. One of them comments his work is ""not only filthy with prurience but reeks of self-pity."" It seems apodictally true here.