A large part of my current set of frustrations is most certainly my desire to to find overemphasized the role played by european aesthetics in american novels and stories, and so bring to the experience of reading such works a sense of universally shared preoccupations where these are leider! mostly eurocentric ones. I find myself both dazzled and bored by The Adventures of Augie March, the boredom created by the wearying insistance on the primacy of narrative, while the bedazzlement is indefatigably wrung out of this by the uncanniness of the genial bellovian style.