Eleanor Catton, born and raised in New Zealand, wrote this, her second novel, when she was 28. With 800 pages it is a brick of a book and a really laborious piece of work. But, I must confess, after about 30 pages, I gave up, because the story had not even started. Catton, like Pessl , is thrilled by her capacity for eloborate words and phrases. But, unlike Pessl, she cannot enthrall the reader likewise.
I am delighted for Catton that she won the Man Booker Prize , but still I am not prepared to read her masterpiece.