Ever since The Girl on the Vin Flamings, Alfred Hayes has written a series of compressed, facile and somewhat superficial small stories in an intense first person. This one is much more wilted, dealing as it does with a damaged middle aged man (also a scriptwriter, like Hayes) with fallen arches and two collapsed marriages. He comes to New York to try and regain his own past but drops from his own void into the generational gap with Michael Bey, a young relative, a sullen sort who writes poetry, and Aurora, his girl. Through them he attempts to secure a ""temporary visa....(into the) country of the young""--instead he's conned, not only out of money, but out of any possibility of renewal. Somehow it doesn't quite matter and The End of Me is unregretted.