The narrator is a researcher who decides that he will live in his bathroom in a Parisian flat. He moves everything (clothes, books, etc.) there, and sits in his tub all day, contemplating his toenails. His girlfriend and his mother visit him and are amazingly tolerant of his foibles. The book consists of short, self-absorbed entries, such as this one:

9. The bathroom walls were light green, the paint blistered in spots. After turning the key in the door I took off my underpants and hung them on the doorknob. I took a shower in the tub, dried myself, and went back to my room shivering, towel around my shoulders. The new underwear was on the table. Using my teeth, I separated the socks, which were tied together with a thread. The wool was soft, smelled good. I put on clean socks, new underpants. I was feeling good. In that state, I hung around the room for a while, pulling on the elastic of my underpants, reading the notices thumbtacked to the door: safety instructions, prices of rooms, breakfast. Turning back to the table, I pulled on my trousers and put on my dirty shirt, which stank under the armpits.

I'm amazed that I made it through almost 50 pages, and is recommended only if you want a reason to visit a psychotherapist. ( )