The rather singular Sibylla is the product of rather curious parents. Although we don’t see her early life here, we can only imagine it to be, well, rather singular. Eventually she blags her way into Oxford university and is suitably astounding. But at some point she finds herself in need of money, which initiates a series of events (I’m skipping over a bit here) which culminate in the birth of her son, Ludo. (Actually that now seems like rather a lengthy elision.)

Ludo might be described as exceptional, having started learning Ancient Greek at the age of four. But by comparison to J.S. Mill, he was already a late bloomer. For me, however, it’s really Ludo’s mother, Sibylla, who is more fascinating. Because it’s her effort of will, and unacknowledged brilliance, that opens the doors for Ludo. He merely has to walk through. Of course when the story turns to Ludo’s quest for his father, or possible father, Sibylla’s presence in the story gets sidelined somewhat. That was probably inevitable, but it makes the last third of the novel somewhat less interesting. (Though perhaps it’s more interesting for other people.)

Helen DeWitt’s writing is engaging and full of charm (though that rather makes it sound superficial, and it’s definitely not that). I loved the intense treatment of Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai, and even though I couldn’t read the Japanese or the Ancient Greek passages, I did not find that problematic. (Just a bit personally disappointing.)

So easy to recommend. ( )

Having just seen Seven Samarai (again), this was recommended to me. Her writing is both funny and strange. DeWitt weaves stories of adventurers, dreamers and brilliant men throughout her odd book about a single mom raising a genius child with Kurosawa to guide her. Hmmm... ( )

I believe that I gave this clever, metafictional novel a fair shot, but I wearied of references I could make little sense of and long passages presenting arcane information on linguistics and dead languages (among MANY other things). I was more irritated than impressed by all Dewitt’s tricks. I know this book is something of a modern classic, admired by many, but I was drowning in the metafictional elements. Inventive the novel may be, but at a certain point, enough is enough. Some time ago, I revoked my membership in the clean-plate club; I no longer complete books where the struggle and boredom dwarf enjoyment. I’m doubtful I’d bother with this again and I’m disinclined to read anything else by Dewitt. ( )

Let me start off by saying, because I'll be posting this to my blog, that this book has nothing to do with the film starring Tom Cruise. The film was fine, I don't have anything against it, but the stories could not be more different, except that they both have to do with Samurai, in one way or another.

Helen DeWitt put everything into this book. That's not to say she tried to cram the whole world into 500 pages, it's just to say that she put herself into this book. All of it. I have to believe that. The scope of it, the emotion, the stories--it must have taken everything she had.

It's a wonderful book.

It's a wonderful book about a boy and his mother and about genius and heroism and goodness. There's also a fair amount of stuff in there about various languages and some mathematics and music, and some of it's quite technical. But this should not dissuade you from reading it! You do not need to understand irregular Arabic verb forms to be utterly taken in by the tale she's telling. And it's completely satisfying.

A final word of advice if you have the book on your shelf and are thinking about cracking it open: after about 50 pages, you will want to know what else DeWitt has written, and you will Google her name and discover, to your dismay, that she has written only one other book and that this book is only available as an ebook on her website. Then you will find some interviews with her, or you will find her blog, and you will discover that she has not been treated kindly by the publishing biz. Don't read these things. For weeks after I read that stuff, all I could hear in my head when I opened to my bookmark was the voice of the writer, Helen DeWitt, who has been beaten up by a business gone crazy in its death throes, and not the voice of her narrator.

Don't let this happen to you. Read the book in full. Let it take you in. Then write a nice review of it, or buy it for a friend who likes a good story, or write a glowing letter to Ms. DeWitt thanking her for writing it.

It's that good. ( )

What to say about a book written by someone who is so smart she make David Foster Wallace look like a remedial grade-school student?

It's a frustratingly brilliant book in that there is so much information that the brain and eye skip over because of difficulty, and make re-reading page-by-page nearly essential because it feels like the book is imparting secret truths about life.

Amongst those truths: the brilliant almost never end up where you think they will, opportunity is often more important than innate intelligence, formal education is less important that one thinks though interaction with extremely smart people is crucial to development, culture is reflected through language and language impacts culture and individuals in interesting ways, music and cinema each are their own sorts of languages, and a dozen more.

The change in perspective in the second section is a bit jarring at first, but stick with it, please. I assure you it is worth it. ( )