I am reading Infinite Jest and only Infinite Jest. Well, at least until I need a break. And that will happen. But it will pull at me and call to me even when it repulses me.
David Foster Wallace is apparently my drug of choice. He makes me think too much. His writing is a frustrating fixation, the intake of which I promise myself I can control (denial? Is it a river?). I love his Vulcan-like intellect, but it wears me out and impacts my sleep. I love everything about his style, but it can be infuriating at times and makes me see too much behind my eyelids. I find truths of human psychology and gallows humor scattered in a field of tar and sap.
Dave brought up an analogy of DFW as my "crazy bitch" and I can't shout that down. I just read Of Human Bondage, by W. Summerset Maugham, which featured a classic terrible girlfriend in American literature. And, as Dave so well explained, I may have found my "Mildred."
Before I subject the internet to a basic text conversation that led to the analogy, I offer a bit of background. I read The Pale King early in 2013 and loved it despite its trudging pace. (you can read that Here). I started IJ shortly thereafter. It was good, but I had other book obligations and decided that IJ requires a certain level of concentration. So, I proceeded to devour other books, assigned books, and my final book club book to clear the path for my one true fix.
I have enjoyed my other books, but my peripheral has never lost sight of Infinite Jest. And, for me, it isn't just about DFW the writer (OK, it is, but not quite 100%), but the subject matter itself as well. I have written before that the farcical view is often therapeutic and there are parts of my day-to-day life that require a certain level of gallows humor for survival. I'll just say I often see the worst of many parts of life, and a systematically farcical look at a serious world is extremely appealing to me as an intellectual journey and exercise.
Last week, I finally zeroed in on IJ exclusively.
