O what a tale that hovers formalistically among Nabokov's gorgeous Pale Fire and (dare I mention it?) D.F.W's Infinite Jest. Endlessly, resolutely postmodern, but I think it is altogether more useful to dispense of that label, frequently applied in much the same way as fire blankets are.
I find many (many) authors a little too eager to flex their literary knowledge, the result being a text hypersaturated with author after author, with little effect aside from instilling tedium. Cortázar, I think, avoids this, much to my delight. When he does reference an author, it is not only thematically useful, but also opens up other questions about Hopscotch itself, if one has familiarity with the works referenced. The text also appears to anticipate many philosophical developments of the late 20th century, in particular, Deleuze + Guattari's work (of which I do not presume to speak with any authority).
What am I saying? I suppose I am saying read this book. I think perhaps I have laid my emphases a little poorly, and I must highlight - this novel is quite wholly beautiful.

Okay happy new year everyone check out Year's End by Borges if I don't drop it in some sort of gc