This novel is written with the ironic removal ("limited omniscience," perhaps?) that the great male novelists of the early 21st century (Franzen, Wallace, etc) were often accused of. In that regard, Helen DeWitt can count herself as belonging to their ranks. In all others, she rates somewhere closer to Zadie Smith, whose White Teeth I found similarly insufferable.
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DeWitt is surely no cat lady (not that there's anything wrong with being a cat lady) and I don't get the Zadie Smith comparison either. Obviously this novel's never gonna please crowds, but as a fan of polyglottism and literary monomania (the second half with its demented digressions reminds me of Beckett's "Watt", which I also love) I'll always cheer for it. I actually picked it for a book club once and although there were of course haters, I was surprised how many people dug it.