1965. Existential. A bit over my head. I don't know as I would have gotten much out of it if I hadn't read about it before I read it. An overall impression of death and a tomb perhaps. They say it's about the space, the rotunda. The dying imagining dying? Samuel Beckett imagining dying? Why do the white/heat and black/cold repeat every twenty seconds? But with random pauses? More or less long? One reviewer said it was absurd, and I grant that it is. but more it is bleak and curious, but too bleak to be curious for long. My mind longs to get away from contemplating it. ( )