This character, whether it leads with 'I' or 'he' is a construct obeying rules similar to those of a loose fiction with scant regard for style. His feelings are simple, and or even when complex are so in a simple way - his feelings, my feelings are exhausted by the telling, by what is put into the telling. If I feel uneasy about this and keep signalling that the writer of the moment, the writer in his house of deliberation is aware of the shortfall and refuses to deny it by assimilating his alter ego to fictional space, in other words keeps insisting on certain stylistic dissonances and possibly deliberate errors of taste, this only ends up by adding an uneasy self-consciousness and refusal to let go to his character's description, and making the writer in turn seem muddled. The constructed he or I has no need to be as bedeviled by plurality as the writer must be, by nature, to be swamped by a polyphony of thoughts and sensations among which he cannot choose. He is like a dream character still absorbed in the unfolding of events, and as yet unaware that he is dreaming and hence of being absurdly, excessively, free. He remains enmeshed in the disorder of the writer's thoughts, unable to enter a coherent story or to rebel against his creator. He can only pursue a random course among fixties which neither he nor the writer has yet learned how to question.