Barnes, for all her Americanness, writes like one of those Europeans. Is this supposed to be a surrealist nightmare of sorts? Trapped in hell with a glossolalic American doctor gushing word salad, reminiscent of those many characters in Proust who talk a lot and to no purpose either. (Proust is translated-from-the-French; I can well believe they make more sense in that language, but I'm sure they're every bit as tiresome.)
Also the narrator's pronouncements on The Jew do not make me look foreward to her take on The Tribadist.