Walser's flavouring is that of essaying a narrative, then perhaps yes, i think, commenting on his own process as he creates this blending of essay & story-telling. As he approaches a change in mood, so too does the text change with his ebb and flow. Yet, whereas i cannot abide the overwritten zealous Proust, or the sheer same joke told over & over by Beckett, nor moreover, the intellect stomping-ground of Joyce...this, this swiss fella has vibrantly pursued his own course & is easier on the minds-eye. That his musing, changes of tone come across well, suggests he has also met with favourable translators.
These variably aged, differing story-essay-come-hither-glances of literature gathered here, are as ever a delight. The Walk is the longest 'item' involved, & seems to be the back-bone of the book. The other prose-pieces are as ever an exquisite state of 'walserness'. Not unlike being a bit 'pessoan' after & during the Book of Disquiet.
He seems personally, to be writing without guile, without some sinister purpose, with nary a care for impressing the audience. But he does impress upon the audience, with every sense described. He appears to run his prose work like a mouse, a mouse in a maze, but a mouse that occasionally reminding us he also made the maze. Walser is one of those writers who enjoys to remind the reader there are no walls.