I feel so bad writing anything about this book because Cabrera Infante and his translators deserve so much more than anything I can offer. 

The novel takes pre-Revolution Cuba (its language, nightlife, literary reputation, personal relationships, etc.) and turns it inside out, shakes its contents onto the ground, and assembles them into a scavenged sculpture of the city and how it's (mis)remembered. I'm particularly in love with Bustrofedon section and its relentless attack of puns and parodies and experimentations. I'll need to return to this novel when I'm leveled up as a reader and bring a map and some pencils along with me. 

Also, I understand the Joyce comparisons but I think the novel is equally at home with Pynchon and Ishmael Reed and anticipates beautifully the writing of people like Bolano and Oloixarac.