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In the pursuit of exploring my own literature derived masochism, I recently tackled David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, a notoriously ‘difficult’ novel. Over 900 pages of narrative combined with 300 pages of footnotes later, I have some very brief, truncated thoughts on the text. These epistles do not represent the whole of the superbly rich experience (an ongoing series into perpetuity could maybe capture all my thoughts/reactions); I’ve actively sought out friends with whom to engage in hours of conversation about the novel, much to their weariness, I’m sure.
Writing a brief riposte of my observations after reading David Foster Wallace’s hulking Megalodon Infinite Jest requires an economy of language that I simply do not possess. When English departments devote course blocks, when much more intelligent, perceptive scholars pen much more erudite responses to the text, it strikes me as absurd to attempt to write a brief missive on Wallace’s paean to the power of fiction. Nonetheless, I do have SOME thoughts, and I thought I’d share.