I am officially abandoning this book. The chances of resuming it are going to be slim to nil. I don't know if it was the English translation's fault, but reading this book felt like eating cardboard. There was a moment or two of inspired writing but they were few and far between. Comparisons to Joyce and Pynchon are so off base that I have arrived to the conclusion that critics lauding this book had ingested copious amounts of peyote or LSD before reading.