Early on during my attendance at the University of Montana in Missoula, I attempted to read this book. I had been impressed by the phonebook-esque length, the tiny, crimped font, and enticing plot described on the back ever since I spotted it on a shelf at Hastings during my high school years. My copy had been purchased in 2006, the ten-year anniversary of the book's publication, and it had been marked down to $10 versus the typical $16 price tag; it had also been stamped as a special "anniversary copy."
Sadly, a few pages in, I just didn't get it and resigned, eventually giving away that particular edition to a local used bookstore. The narrative described a plethora of details that seemed unnecessary to the plot (what plot? har-har) and I stopped reading once I encountered a sentence that made zero sense to me: "I would yield to the urge to bolt for the door ahead of them if I could know that bolting for the door is what the men in this room would see." Like, huh? What else would they see, Dave? I just couldn't bring myself to read another word. The book had already stopped playing by one of my cardinal rules, which was to always make sense to the reader, always.
In a couple of years, things changed. Because of my college English lit classes, I was soon subjected to a barrage of mind-melting literature capable of completely changing the way I looked at fiction, especially the one-two punch of massive prose bricks Ulysses and Gravity's Rainbow, both of which had been paired with separate books written by scholars just devoted to explain the avalanche of random references and symbols. It soon became apparent to me that just because a book didn't always make sense or hit the usual narrative notes, it didn't always mean that it was an inferior work. Both Ulysses and GR equally frustrated and astounded me depending on which section I was reading, and they both eventually made their way onto my "favorite books" list due to their complexity and inimitable composition.
And but so I went ahead and gave IJ another chance. For a college graduation gift, I had received my requested present of a 2nd-generation Kindle. I downloaded a free sample of IJ and found that it was the longest sample Amazon had (and still has) ever sent me - it hit close the 70-page mark in the physical book. I started reading and kept on reading until the end of the sample. Like a spaceship gravitating toward a gaping black hole, unable to turn itself away from the hole's crushing pull, I was compelled to outright buy the book and read the rest of it.
I won't bother to waste my words here on the peculiar and sprawling plot, as it frequently defies description (and can be summarized in other reviews here). Same goes for the unconventional structure: most people know about the voluminous collection of footnotes, but there's far more intricacy to it than that. Instead, I will keep it brief and to the absolute essential of what you should know about this book: It is amazing. It really is. Ever since I read it, it still remains the best novel I've ever read. And a lot of people (including those who choose to read it as a part of "Infinite Summer") feel or will feel the same way.
A lot of times, when I read a book for a certain length of time, I start feeling the itch to just hurry up and finish it as soon as possible so I can get onto the next book. It must be an addiction to novelty and newness or something, but it happens with almost every book I read: a desire to read every last word so I can soon stand in front of my bookshelf, twiddling my fingers with glee whilst weighing the options of what I'll read next. With IJ, that never happened. During the three months that it took me to read it, I had the sensation of feeling like 1100 pages were just not enough. With characters and concepts this unique and compelling, I needed at least another 2200 pages, minimum.
Oddly enough, even though this is my favorite book as yet, it is by no means perfect. As hinted at by the "bolting for the door" line above, DFW does not always make complete sense and sometimes leaves you scratching your noggin, wondering what he meant. Nor is every single passage golden and hallowed: some sections go on and on to your detriment and consternation (I'm thinking specifically between the long-winded, philosophical conversations in the desert shared between Marathe and Steeply, easily the worst and most boring sections of the book).
In addition, the book ends on an apparently random and unsatisfying note, leaving a lot of unresolved plot points and likely serving up a cold helping of dissatisfaction upon the first read-through -- the opposite of the warm and fuzzy feeling avid readers have of closing a book and thinking, "There was absolutely no better way that could have ended." (I'm planning on reading Chris Hager's lengthy and reference-laden undergrad thesis which defends and explains IJ's ending -- I just recently found it on DFW website "The Howling Fantods," but I haven't got the time right now to plow through it and underline important points with a pen.)
Despite these downsides, however, there is so much stuff that just works: the chilling, deadly methods of the Wheelchair Assassins; Poor Tony Krause's nightmarish drug detox in a public library bathroom; Joelle Van Dyne's attempted suicide in the bathroom of a party; the apocalyptic Eschaton match; a hilarious description of the rise and subsequent failure of video-phone technology; Gately's robbery and accidental murder of M. DuPlessis early on in the book; and so much more. Joelle, Orin, Mario, Pemulis, John "No Relation" Wayne, and especially my main man Gately are all ranked among my favorite fictional characters ever written.
One thing I dislike about some post-modern authors is their apparent clinical detachment from their own characters; while everything is beautifully and eloquently written, I often get a sense of coldness, as though the writers do not feel very much for or through their own characters. In this, there is a heavy lack of what I think of as "heart." (I sensed this frequently throughout Don Delillo's "White Noise," whose characters seemed kind of flat and emotionless.)
DFW, on the other hand, put so much heart in this particular work that it's sometimes too much to take. Whether it's addressing the pain of addiction, the heartbreak of losing a loved one, the horror of child abuse, or the pure inability to connect with others or experience happiness, it's clear that DFW surely channeled many of his own fears and insecurities through his fictional creations and put much of himself down on the page as a result.
In contrast, there are also many parts of the book that are simply and uproariously hilarious. DFW boasted a very sharp and immediate sense of humor along his skills of prosaic manipulation. The edifice of Ennet House Drug and Alcohol Recovery House[sic], Don Gately's shrewd but uneducated observations & criminal upbringing, and the overall world of consumerism gone horrifically wrong as encouraged by the rampant rise of corporations are all fertile fields for the novel's more humorous sensibilities. There were many times that IJ brought on a spate of giggling in me so pronounced that I had to just put down the book and allow it to pass before I could continue.
Now, be advised that this book is not for everyone. Lord, no. Just because I and others enjoyed it so greatly does not mean that everybody will feel the same way. It's a very challenging and demanding work, and it seems designed for a very particular audience. Anyone hoping for a nicely-defined plot or simple themes will find him-or-herself quickly thwarted. Others looking for some kind of a point to the apparently pointless ramblings of admittedly inconsequential details or conversations that pack hundreds of pages, a lot of them enjoyable but ultimately unimportant to any overarching theme, will also go bananas with vexation.
IJ was never designed to nab a Pulitzer or a National Book Award, never designed to go down in the annals of literary greatness as one of those books that speak volumes to whoever reads it over the span of centuries. I think that it will connect most with collegiate types who grew up Gen-X and beyond, the ones who have, as children or young adults, especially experienced the constant bombardment of unconscious marketing by huge conglomerates, as well as the ubiquity of "the entertainment" whether through television and video cassettes or (later on) DVDs and the Internet. Anyone who has grown up in this age of easy access to non-stop stimulation will likely understand what DFW intended to lambaste with this particular book.
Now down to brass tacks: I own both the Kindle copy and the regular paperback edition (obtained at a used book sale along with a copy of Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policeman's Union for a $1, probably the best used book purchase I've ever made). Given the size of this beast, I would heartily recommend the Kindle format for a first-time reader if you've got the appropriate technology. The Kindle version makes flipping back and forth between the main text and the footnotes a breeze, and let's face it, do you really want to lug that huge book around? (Unless maybe you're trying to broadcast to other people what it is that you're reading so you can more easily strike up a conversation with someone who has parallel literary tastes to you, to which I say go right ahead and get the door-stopper, then.)
We lost a genius and heartfelt mind in 2008 when Wallace committed suicide, but at the very least, he has left behind this amazing and one-of-a-kind labor of love that continues to inspire and confound the people who read it long after he left us. Not sure if you'll enjoy the book or not? Try downloading the free sample. As far as I know, it's just as long as it was when I first began this massive undertaking, and it'll give you a very good sense of what you're about to experience for the next couple of months. If you're not the intended audience, you can always put the book down. But if you are, you'll find that you too can't stop reading, and your life will likely be as irrevocably changed as mine was by this extraordinary book. Welcome to Infinite Jest.
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American experience seems to suggest that people are virtually unlimited in their need to give themselves away, on various levels. Some just prefer to do it in secret.Highlighted by 3,588 Kindle readers- That you will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do.Highlighted by 2,192 Kindle readers
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Think of this as a big Box of Chocolates - and download the Audible version by Sean Pratt!
After more than a decade of trying to read this incredibly dense tome, I finally became thoroughly engaged thanks to the wonderful reading on the Audible.com version by Sean Pratt. It is as rewarding a download as I have ever made. Pratt brings the text to life with passion and precisely the right tone and humor, as appropriate. What I quickly learned is that ere is no single narrative or plot that would engage me and drive me through the almost one thousand pages. Instead, the book is best seen as a huge, super heavy box of assorted chocolates (some of which you may totally hate!). So it is myopic to think of this as a "book about addiction." Sure, it's there. But so are countless related plots and subplots with a lot of humor, insight and brilliant ramblings. Examples of the rants I loved the most include the many musings about tennis, the separatist passions of the Quebecquoise, the wonders of the arc of a seventy-yard punt, and Captain Furrillo's relative strengths as the senior detective of Hill Street Bluess compared to the guy in Hawaii-Five O!So enjoy this wonderful ride and do not despair if you leave some of the chocolates for your mother or sister!
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Mr. B. J. Dutton
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