Re-reading 'Infinite Jest,' currently.
Had dipped into it again only a little while after finishing same. Reminds me of the Ambrose Bierce bit about friends and old rotten meat being served up again - a take on guests and fish and one of my dad's ol' favorites.
But this book is like trying to hold a planet in your head and I thought I'd revisit.
Blah blah blah.
There is a certain dispassionate, cerebral nature, that while brilliant, makes me wonder if David Foster Wallace had a very emotionally connected life.
He seems so attuned to certain things - addiction and sideways thinking (and yes, I'm borrowing from the big book here, less as adherent than observer) that... oop, look at the time.
I shall have to revisit later. Mad dashing to ensue.
One thing, though.
'Infinite Jest' strikes me not only as the title to this book, but maybe an inside joke DFW was having with himself - an ironic commentary on his own life.
More to follow, I think, on this tangent.
And then again I could be full of sh*t.
Ta.
Had dipped into it again only a little while after finishing same. Reminds me of the Ambrose Bierce bit about friends and old rotten meat being served up again - a take on guests and fish and one of my dad's ol' favorites.
But this book is like trying to hold a planet in your head and I thought I'd revisit.
Blah blah blah.
There is a certain dispassionate, cerebral nature, that while brilliant, makes me wonder if David Foster Wallace had a very emotionally connected life.
He seems so attuned to certain things - addiction and sideways thinking (and yes, I'm borrowing from the big book here, less as adherent than observer) that... oop, look at the time.
I shall have to revisit later. Mad dashing to ensue.
One thing, though.
'Infinite Jest' strikes me not only as the title to this book, but maybe an inside joke DFW was having with himself - an ironic commentary on his own life.
More to follow, I think, on this tangent.
And then again I could be full of sh*t.
Ta.
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