For him the way to secure a real world that's more than a vomitory projection of "self" is to forget the oral origin of that world and decree it always already to have been there in order that a subject might lose and then find it.
Despite its apparently ocular "objectivity," despite what we'll discover is an unusually intense thematic interest in questions of vision, voyeurism, and narcissistic gazing, we must yet insist that what looks here like "looking" turns out to be "eating," and that what gets eaten is a vomitory (no)thing which cannot be assimilated without both eliminating the stuff of my world and reintrojecting the negated negation that will come now completely to devour me.
And what that space both "is" and "contains"--what it in fact envelops by being--turns out to be the vomitory (no)thing that must be expelled from the perceiving subject and then fended off in the apprehended object if a self and its world are ever to "meet" in the visual field at all.
It's therefore useless to talk anymore of a "narrative mode" that's distinct from its "content." The novel spits out as contentual stuff the confrontation between eye and world enacted in the mode of its telling, just as--conversely--the book is "about" the ruin of vision performed by a mode whose dementing commitment to seeing-in-between is cast by the content as vomitory. Vomit spills over, ceaseless and sticky, from matter to mode and back again, and this means that "I" am mixed up in this world no less than Horace himself.