As the back blurb rightly states:
It is not a book of poems.
It is not a long poem.
It is not a novel.
Nor a volume of short stories.
It is not a work of philosophy.
It is not an object – like a stone.
Yet it drops into the well of nothingness
and is never heard of again.
a book with no name
fuses the optimism of Beckett with the hyperrealism of
Stein.
