It’s a character. An individual, male, who walks, gets about, stops, makes love, drinks, takes drugs, and moves on. It a character of the night who ends up drawing near to Stendhal’s famous description of the novel, as he walks down the road acting as a mirror for it. Perhaps this character is a novel.
Mixing successive levels chaos, this is ultimately a compendium whose seeming coherence evades comprehension more violently than the propositions Antoine D’Agata has accustomed us to. This is a character who will remain a mystery—that is, unless he is in fact a pointer.