Name: Infinite jest
ISBN: 9788806232474

David F. Wallace

Infinite jest

Zamu

«No, ma vedi, il fatto è che io non volevo dire che tu sei uno che abbraccia o uno che non abbraccia, perché non ti conosco. Volevo solo dire che non ho niente contro di te come persona, e sarei più che contento di stringerti la mano, anche una di quelle intricate multiple strette di mano etniche, se avrai la pazienza di sopportare la mia inesperienza in quel tipo di stretta di mano, ma non mi sento a mio agio con gli abbracci».

Come la maggior parte degli uomini grossi, si sta adattando in fretta all'idea che il suo posto nel mondo sia molto piccolo e il suo impatto sulle altre persone ancor di più.

Che per qualche perversa ragione, è spesso più divertente desiderare qualcosa che averlo.

«È tutto il giorno che ogni cosa sembra beige e polverosa. I sacchetti della spazzatura continuano a gonfiarsi e a prender fuoco per combustione spontanea dentro i cassonetti. Ci sono piogge improvvise di fondi di caffè e bucce d'arancia. Gli spazzini nei camionchiatta devono mettersi i guanti di amianto. Poi ho incontrato qualcuno, un qualcuno forse molto speciale».

martian1138

I am coming to see that the sensation of the worst nightmares, a sensation that can be felt asleep or awake, is identical to those worst dreams' form itself: the sudden intra-dream realization that the nightmares' very essence and center has been with you all along, even awake: it's just been ... 

; and then that horrific interval between realizing what you've overlooked and turning your head to look back at what's been right there all along, the 

That no single, individual moment is in and of itself unendurable.

Lucien finally dies, rather a while after he's quit shuddering like a clubbed muskie and seemed to them to die, as he finally sheds his body's suit, Lucien finds his gut and throat again and newly whole, clean and unimpeded, and is free, catapulted over fans and the Convexity's glass palisades at desperate speeds, soaring north, sounding a bell-clear and nearly maternal alarmed call-to-arms in all the world's well-known tongues.

Conor Murphy

Hal likes to get high in secret, but a bigger secret is that he’s as attached to the secrecy as he is to getting high.

This is an upscale district of a vital North American metropolis, Hal.

The figure of Death (Heath) presides over the front entrance of a carnival sideshow whose spectators watch performers undergo unspeakable acts of degradations so grotesquely compelling that the spectators’ eyes become larger and larger until the spectators themselves are transformed into gigantic eyeballs in chairs, while on the other side of the sideshow tent the figure of Life (Heaven) uses a megaphone to invite fairgoers to an exhibition in which, if the fairgoers consent to undergo unspeakable degradations, they can witness ordinary persons gradually turn into gigantic eyeballs.

For some reason now I am thinking of the sort of philanthropist who seems humanly repellent not in spite of his charity but because of it: on some level you can tell that he views the recipients of his charity not as persons so much as pieces of exercise equipment on which he can develop and demonstrate his own virtue. What's creepy and repellent is that this sort of philanthropist clearly needs privation and suffering to continue, since it is his own virtue he prizes, instead of the ends to which the virtue is ostensibly directed.

Hal, who’s empty but not dumb, theorizes privately that what passes for hip cynical transcendence of sentiment is really some kind of fear of being really human, since to be really human (at least as he conceptualizes it) is probably to be unavoidably sentimental and naïve and goo-prone and generally pathetic, is to be in some basic interior way forever infantile, some sort of not-quite-right-looking infant dragging itself anaclitically around the map, with big wet eyes and froggy-soft skin, huge skull, gooey drool. One of the really American things about Hal, probably, is the way he despises what it is he’s really lonely for: this hideous internal self, incontinent of sentiment and need, that pules and writhes just under the hip empty mask, anhedonia.

It’s funny because he got it right that this type of communication introduces a ton of anxieties that weren’t present before but we just live with it and suffer instead of rejecting the technology.

In an early and ominous InterLace/G.T.E. focus-group survey that was all but ignored in a storm of entrepreneurial sci-fi-tech enthusiasm, almost 60% of respondents who received visual access to their own faces during videophonic calls specifically used the terms untrustworthy, unlikable, or hard to like in describing their own visage's appearance, with a phenomenally ominous 71% of senior-citizen respondents specifically comparing their video-faces to that of Richard Nixon during the Nixon-Kennedy debates of B.S. 1960.

Even then, of course, the bulk of U.S. consumers remained verifiably reluctant to leave home and teleputer and to interface personally, though this phenomenon's endurance can't be attributed to the videophony-fad per se, and anyway the new panagoraphobia served to open huge new entrepreneurial teleputerized markets for home-shopping and -delivery, and didn't cause much industry concern.

David Foster Wallace

'A writer of virtuostic talents who can seemingly do anything' New York Times 'Wallace is a superb comedian of culture . . . his exuberance and intellectual impishness are a delight' James Wood, Guardian 'He induces the kind of laughter which, when read in bed with a sleeping partner, wakes said sleeping partner up . . . He's damn good' Nicholas Lezard, Guardian 'One of the best books about addiction and recovery to appear in recent memory' Sunday Times Somewhere in the not-so-distant future the residents of Ennet House, a Boston halfway house for recovering addicts, and students at the nearby Enfield Tennis Academy are ensnared in the search for the master copy of Infinite Jest, a movie said to be so dangerously entertaining its viewers become entranced and expire in a state of catatonic bliss . . .

Infinite Jest

a defining text: fractured literary culture by being the absolute culmination of a particular maximalist sensibility. we're left picking up the pieces: the question becomes whether to write beyond it or against it. there can be no replacing or ignoring it.

laika

A Novel

lucy rosenthal

里森

Gabe Cortez

Patrick Book

3.75! 

I absolutely can see why the structure and length and formalism is intimidating and off-putting to people. Yes it’s long, but it’s not the longest. Yes, the endless footnoting is annoying but there are some great jokes in there too! 

While some language hasn’t aged well, there is some incredibly funny stuff in the cracks here and the attempt at making it recursive is a bold enough stroke to warrant applause. I would love the edited version if one existed, but I’m fine with it not! This is a very skillfully made story and I don’t understand why it’s such a divisive thing. It’s just a book nerds! It need not be either lionized or pilloried to the degree that it seems to be.

A gargantuan, mind-altering comedy about the Pursuit of Happiness in America set in an addicts' halfway house and a tennis academy, and featuring the most endearingly screwed-up family to come along in recent fiction, Infinite Jest explores essential questions about what entertainment is and why it has come to so dominate our lives; about how our desire for entertainment affects our need to connect with other people; and about what the pleasures we choose say about who we are. Equal parts philosophical quest and screwball comedy, Infinite Jest bends every rule of fiction without sacrificing for a moment its own entertainment value. It is an exuberant, uniquely American exploration of the passions that make us human - and one of those rare books that renew the idea of what a novel can do.

Evan

Took me five and a half years with several sabbaticals to finish "Infinite Jest". Finally, I can say I enjoyed this book.

It's dense throughout and needlessly convoluted in the beginning, and while I have several notions as to "Why?", the fact is this book basically attacks its reader for a long while, then eases up only slightly on the attack for the rest. For something like 200 pages, "Infinite Jest" has zero real through line, which will no doubt piss you off. It even ends a thousand pages later without a real (obvious) resolution, so that might doubly piss you off after making it through that tough stretch.

But I think it was worth it. It's extremely entertaining throughout, I think David Foster Wallace was hilarious. Unique and charming characters (sometimes charming in how uncharming they are) pop up like nonstop automatic rounds, new ones being introduced literally at the end. The scenarios these characters find themselves in are equally distinctive and will probably have you laughing while they anguish. A few rare and potent moments may have you chewing your entire fingertip off in anxiety.

Maybe the hundred pages of footnotes can be written off as a gimmick, but I think they added a lot to this story and show he really did his god damn research, and this was before you could easily Google anything and everything. It's an extra layer of fascinating.

Clearly a man who understood the battle of addiction and was captivated by its pervasive tendencies across varying media. It's quite taxing, there's simply no denying that, but I'm glad I finally gave "Infinite Jest" the required time to read.

First 200-300 pages: "This man is a genius and I will ride or die for him!"

About 300-500 pages: "Oof I'm not sure I like him so much? Idk I like some of the philosophical discourse but it did get pretty racist there for a hot minute..."

500-700 pages: "Ok so what are we doing here? Do we not want to tell a story? Do we want to just do discourse on addiction? You could just write a collection of essays on the matter you douche. And also starting to get weirdly misogynistic here. How do you really feel about all of your exes and you mom?"

700-850 pages: "Ok, so we do have a story here. Great! Didn't need to take up this much time to get here but hey we're on track."

850-end: "You're an asshole and a waste of time. Fuck you and all your annoying little fans."

People who love this book either did not finish it or are just insufferable jerk offs.

Nick Whalen

My thoughts during the experience:

First 200-300 pages: "This man is a genius and I will ride or die for him!"

About 300-500 pages: "Oof I'm not sure I like him so much? Idk I like some of the philosophical discourse but it did get pretty racist there for a hot minute..."

500-700 pages: "Ok so what are we doing here? Do we not want to tell a story? Do we want to just do discourse on addiction? You could just write a collection of essays on the matter you douche. And also starting to get weirdly misogynistic here. How do you really feel about all of your exes and you mom?"

700-850 pages: "Ok, so we do have a story here. Great! Didn't need to take up this much time to get here but hey we're on track."

850-end: "You're an asshole and a waste of time. Fuck you and all your annoying little fans."

People who love this book either did not finish it or are just insufferable jerk offs.

Somewhere in the not-so-distant future the residents of Ennet House, a Boston halfway house for recovering addicts, and students at the nearby Enfield Tennis Academy are ensnared in the search for the master copy of INFINITE JEST, a movie said to be so dangerously entertaining its viewers become entranced and expire in a state of catatonic bliss . . . 'Wallace's exuberance and intellectual impishness are a delight, and he has deep things to say about the hollowness of contemporary American pleasure . . . sentences and whole pages are marvels of cosmic concentration . . . Wallace is a superb comedian of culture' James Wood, GUARDIAN

Luis Ponce

No estoy preparado mentalmente para escribir sobre esto.

The story of an intelligent but zany dysfunctional family is set in a drug-and-alcohol addicts' halfway house and a tennis academy and follows such themes as heartbreak, philosophy, and advertising.

Clara Olausson

jag försökte för tredje gången försöka förstå mig på storheten. 200 sidor in gav jag upp igen. jag kanske borde sluta försöka??

Ned Summers 

jack

lol. feels so dumb and cliche but this book is so perfect. besides the 20 page eschaton game around a third of the way through this thing doesn't feel bloated at all and perhaps exercises more economy than some of his shorter works (namely Mr. Squishy). reading this is in and of itself a sickly addicting experience. speaks to so much of the 21st century experience, but more often because of its easy universality than its foresight. god it is cringe to be so in love with this book but it really surpassed every high expectation i had for it. definitely cemented itself among my favorite books of all time, if not taking the top spot. so wonderful. so so so wonderful. need someone i know to finish this so i can talk to them abt it.

Joshua Line

Classic American novel. One of  the last gasps of american literature. This was written to appeal to an audience that isn't served by publishers or authors these days. The big important novel that illuminates the depths possible in human thought and expression. Novels with that as a purpose seem to have evaporated lately. They evaporated with the loss of faith in the western liberal project. Instead of embracing rationality and originality the new doyens of culture churn out fascistic tomes filled with cultural imperatives.  These only make sense to people immersed in gray life sucking mass media, Hollywood, beltway thrash they are trying to pawn off as representative when it is straight up propaganda. Turn it all off and read books like this one to bring yourself back to reality. The western mass media will destroy your mind otherwise.

Maurice FitzGerald

Joe Ross

I'm giving it three stars today but that's only because I have yet to really compute my opinion on the thing, and likely won't be able to compute it without re-reading the thing, which I'm not going to start doing for another few months. I read it on and off for more than a year, so I need a break... But the first-read tl;dr is this list of reasons not to read IJ: 

- If you need a linear or even semi-linear plot
- If you need chapters which mark a distinct change in setting, character or timeline
- If you want a clear conclusion
- If you can't empathize with or at least pity those dealing with addiction
- If a character list larger than many writers' entire output is offputting
- If you like an easy distinction between sci-fi, alt-history, satire, drama, self-deprecation, coming-of-age, geo-politics and essentially everything else ever

So, today is January 3, 2016 and I'll update this in the future. Bye.

Traci Wilbanks

I tried. I realized after listening for 10 hours that I didn't want to force myself to hang in for the remaining 46 hours! The story and its characters were relentless. It seemed detailed for the sake of being detailed. We get it DFW; you had a great vocabulary and created massively dense and complex narrative layers. It was exhausting after a while. I'm glad you found an audience. I'm not it, apparently.

amazing, interesting, funny, looooong but weird and confusing book - takes 300 pages too know whats going on, but unlike nothing I have ever read and I'm struggling to get into another book since...

Orla Kilroy

Vladimir

фантастичен във всеки смисъл на думата

Gavin

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. 

Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames.

faye

i read this book in 2022 and got thru 3/4ths of it before i lost my copy and somehow just ... did not feel the need to find it or buy a new one. i recognize this means i will have to reread the entire book again one day but . hey ! i'll do it. not as bad as people say, but dear God it took me ages to get through it because i had to reread every other paragraph (or maybe i'm just a dumb dumb).

anyway

"what if there is no choice but to love? what if the temple comes to Mohammed? what if you just love? without deciding?

 [...]

then in such a case your temple is self and sentiment. you are by yourself and alone, kneeling to yourself."

david foster wallace man.. he's a crazy guy!

This deluxe paperback edition--featuring flaps, new cover art, and a new foreword by Tom Bissell--celebrates the 20th anniversary of the original publication of Infinite Jest. A gargantuan, mind-altering comedy about the Pursuit of Happiness in America set in an addicts' halfway house and a tennis academy, and featuring the most endearingly screwed-up family to come along in recent fiction, Infinite Jest explores essential questions about what entertainment is and why it has come to so dominate our lives; about how our desire for entertainment affects our need to connect with other people; and about what the pleasures we choose say about who we are. Equal parts philosophical quest and screwball comedy, Infinite Jest bends every rule of fiction without sacrificing for a moment its own entertainment value. It is an exuberant, uniquely American exploration of the passions that make us human - and one of those rare books that renew the idea of what a novel can do.

A Novel -- 20th Anniversary Edition

Mykyta Barabanov

Did I got everything right from the first read? Hell no....

If anything, the author took me places usually reserved for sub-conscious processes that are normally better left alone to hang by themselves in the darkness - unresolved.

But, it's those places that define how you can describe yourself against everything else around, when at the event of an unexpected thunderstorm your petty ass is blessed with random flood of thoughtful ambivalence and reveries, or that moment, when somewhere throughout the discussion with people you go deeper and ascribe the reactions to something more extended than just putting yourself in somebodies shoes. 

DFW doesn't help you to fight your humannesses or make your life more explained or even, god forbid, well-adjusted, what his work does, though, is leave you with this collection of well-hidden polished ideas, confusions and good sense of humour, that you need to understand and decipher to have at least a remote shot on figuring out the notions that goes through your mind when you are left alone to think about what it means to be a complex being that is not trying to pretend or just distract oneself from existential matters.

Not without external help, but i think i'v got a tiny step closer to understanding the impact of addiction, relationships, role of entertainment in the life - all from a man who didn't know all the answers himself, but, who gave his passions of putting thoughts into writing, general intelligence and eventually - life, all to describe an extraordinary delight of being a complex personality. 

p.s. the book is hard to digest, don't shy away from literally help (forums, book-club, etc) while on this quest, try to make it over first 200 pages and constantly challenge yourself - the book will strike a chord with you if you play along. It's not entertainment you think you need, but the one that can help you see the world as something more honest and devoid of emptiness. (sorry for oxymoron).

p.s.s. it took me one year to finish.