Last September when David Foster Wallace committed suicide, I was saddened. Not because I had read his work and felt a strong connection to it, but because I hadn't delved into it despite the urging of my friends and the knowledge that he was perhaps one the best American writers of our time. Over the years I've picked up his mammoth novel, Infinite Jest, several times only to inadvertently lose motivation and neglect to continue reading.
This time I am delving in with zeal. Post-modern fiction you ask? A giant thousand-page novel set in the vague near-future? With frequent text-disruptions in the form of endnotes and digressions? Yes! Hand it over!
At page 116, it is promising to be a fantastic read. Well worth hanging in there through the beginning.
If you so desire, you should get yourselves a copy and read along with me.
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