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A review by 82_99
Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace
challenging
dark
funny
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.5
Uhhhhhhhhhhhh. Forgive my grammatical errors please, this cafe is closing. I am currently on my second immediate reread of this novel.
I believe this truly warrants a full-fledged, creative writing piece as a review out of love.
This book is imperfect—for instance, the chapter early on about Wardine and her abusive mother being written super poorly; almost a pretentious, unfamiliar (racist, I’d contend) mockery of African-inner city accent rather than actually adhering to it. But what it teaches me as a writer is that this is insignificant in comparison to the themes you wish to convey to your readers and the devices you use to present those themes. It’s very much the intangibles, the hidden-between-the-lines pourings of David Foster Wallace’s creative juices that make this in my opinion the best book I’ve read, despite receiving a 4.5/5. It’s a paradoxical and perhaps ignorant, nonsensical rating given my standing but it is the only score that resonates with my heart.
It’s an off-kilter, rambunctious uncle who alternates from a Math-rock tempo’d style to a more somber, depressing atmosphere. It is very postmodern; as in, The Denver Library, or the Portland Building, or Mount Saint Michael + Saint Michael’s Mount by Aphex Twin. It’s super disorienting to read, it feels like being drugged in a world where you are the last remaining being, because it’s also devoted to its messages of isolation and suicide and talent and addiction.
It definitely isn’t for everyone, but if you are of the open-mind, I definitely think this is worthwhile. Oh, worthwhile certainly, but it’s just a matter of how uncomfortable you’re willing to get before conceding.
(More to be added).
I believe this truly warrants a full-fledged, creative writing piece as a review out of love.
This book is imperfect—for instance, the chapter early on about Wardine and her abusive mother being written super poorly; almost a pretentious, unfamiliar (racist, I’d contend) mockery of African-inner city accent rather than actually adhering to it. But what it teaches me as a writer is that this is insignificant in comparison to the themes you wish to convey to your readers and the devices you use to present those themes. It’s very much the intangibles, the hidden-between-the-lines pourings of David Foster Wallace’s creative juices that make this in my opinion the best book I’ve read, despite receiving a 4.5/5. It’s a paradoxical and perhaps ignorant, nonsensical rating given my standing but it is the only score that resonates with my heart.
It’s an off-kilter, rambunctious uncle who alternates from a Math-rock tempo’d style to a more somber, depressing atmosphere. It is very postmodern; as in, The Denver Library, or the Portland Building, or Mount Saint Michael + Saint Michael’s Mount by Aphex Twin. It’s super disorienting to read, it feels like being drugged in a world where you are the last remaining being, because it’s also devoted to its messages of isolation and suicide and talent and addiction.
It definitely isn’t for everyone, but if you are of the open-mind, I definitely think this is worthwhile. Oh, worthwhile certainly, but it’s just a matter of how uncomfortable you’re willing to get before conceding.
(More to be added).