I've given up on the reading schedule for David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest. I'm still gunning for a September finish, but I've reached the point of no return--I'm so far into this book that there's (probably) no way I can give up now. (I say probably because I dumped Thomas Pynchon's Against the Day after a mere three hundred pages.) I'm enjoying Infinite Jest, and it's funny, in a wry, deadpan way, but I wonder what all the fuss is about. Sure, it tests my patience--in a fit of exasperation, I put it down for a week or so--and I like the satire, but the book is over-rated. The Alcohoics Anonymous sections aren't that compelling; I'm always tempted to just skip these sections in favor of the tennis academy sections. That's the ticket, the gateway to enjoying Infinite Jest. When Wallace revisits the Ennet House residents, things turn into a mind-numbing exercise in tedium--I find myself wishing for next "Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment" signifier.

As for Infinite Jest's place in the postmodern canon, I'm beginning to think that people congratulate Wallace as a way of congratulating themselves for reading such a weird and massive book.

Comments

[Citizen Reader]

Hm,
You're not really selling it here, Brandon. I may, in fact, have to stick with his essays and nonfiction, which are fantastic.