It is as if there is a tuning dial that can be jolted up or down and thereby resetting the metaphysical texture of experience, the existential formulas of everyday passages in a remarkable variety. The odd thing is that despite all of this change of genre the protagonist is always identical. The events accumulate like stray papers on a desk for which some sort of hopelessly overdue synthesis is required. Nothing serves to do away with that inconvenient fellow who is neither a notion or a will, neither secondary or fundamental. He is perhaps no more than a name on an office door, or just a title without a name. To do away with the office, to make it redundant you'd need to apply to another level, or perhaps just dynamite the whole building.