Summer Reading-Infinite Jest

So I’ve set out on a summer reading journey, tackling David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, all 981 pages, an additional 388 endnotes, which tacks on 96 more pages. Not the kind of reading assignment one tackles frivolously. Staying power is required.

Infinite Jest is a “claustrophobic” read, commented one person at Infinite Summer, the focal point of a community read highlighting Wallace’s most famous, and talked about work. Maybe “famous” is the wrong way to describe Wallace and his work.

Unlike the books that get passed off for today’s best selling novels—books that are a cinch to read on your lunch break, the subway, standing in line at the supermarket, or between innings during commercial breaks, watching Red Sox games; Infinite Jest requires heavy lifting—mentally, physically, and metaphorically. Strong arms and a healthy back are also helpful, with this chock-a-block of a novel.

Infinite Summer provides readers, who might be tempted to veer aside, and toss the book down with a loud “thud,” a guide and the company of fellow travelers in reading, which for me, has willed me forward, and actually found me ahead of schedule. Woe to those who got a late start, or haven’t been as religious in their daily reading. Falling behind adds additional pressure to an already tough read, and might be the primary reason many pull up short. Infinite Jest, as presented via Indian Summer, is not a reading plan for procrastinators.

One of the reasons I’m ahead of the reading schedule (as of this morning, I’m at page 227) is illustrated by one of my evenings after work, last week.

Tuesday night, Mary was out for her monthly book club meeting (their group had tackled Khalid Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns), and I had hours of time after work to do what I wanted, as well as an empty house, filled with quiet.

Rather than frittering the time away with the empty calories of sitcoms in rerun, or even pissing away an hour online, with the all-too-often lauded social media tools of Facebook, or Twitter, I arrived home, cracked open a Diet Pepsi (in lieu of a couple of frost-brewed Coors Lights), and set about knocking out some pages over the next hour, or two. Maybe if the sun had been out and it wasn’t raining once again (June has visited rain upon us, 21 out of 30 calendar days), I’d have decided to jump on my bike for an invigorating ride to leech the work day’s stress from my system. The occasional downpours and soaked pavement made my decision to sit under artificial lighting an easier one (that and the stories of how so many have abandoned IJ further on than I’m currently sitting at).

Now that I’m ten days into my assignment, I’m viewing it less as a chore and recognizing now that reading IJ is a subversive act. Understand that for me that’s a real motivator.

When DFW committed suicide last year, no one outside of my wife and son knew anything about him, or his writing. My few failed attempts to explain his significance to co-workers just drew empty looks.

Back in the mid-90s, during my indie rock heyday, I hosted a couple of Saturday night music shows on Bowdoin College’s radio station, WBOR. I was one of a handful of community members that knew enough about college radio, and the CMJ-type formats most programmed at the time, to land a slot, not once, not twice, but for three semesters (and it would have gone longer, if I had decided to continue).

I always gave my shows some kind of “outsider” moniker, like “Swimming Upstream,” or “Against the Grain,” which allowed me to use Bad Religion’s title track from their 1989 album as one of my show’s intro music each week. Subversive college rock radio, I suppose.

During that time, I thought my actions ran counter to the mainstream. I hated much that passed for popular culture, particularly mainstream rock music. I went to great pains to strike a pose running contrary to it.

Looking back a decade, I’m not so sure I was as rad, or counter-cultural as I once fancied myself to be. My musical tastes did run to the fringes of indie rockdom, however.

Given that IJ is my book of choice for the next six to eight weeks (possibly less, given my current reading pace), I’m fueling my page turning forward by thinking of it as an act with seditious tendencies. Accomplishing completion is something that disconnects me from the mainstream of popular culture and its technological mores of watching bad television, mindless trolling of the interwebs, and the current trendy magnetism of social media.

Call the reading “claustrophobic,” difficult, or even impossible to do (as so many are moaning about on the various Infinite Summer blogs) if you want; bail on it after 200 pages if you dare. I’m choosing, however, to move forward as part of a greater reading community of people struggling by various degrees to do something unique in our time—read and think.

I’ve been asking myself (and ruminating on other reader’s comments) the past ten days, why is this book causing us all so much consternation, and even stress? What makes poring through a difficult tome run so counter to our everyday experiences in the 21st century?

I think that most of us, even those that still regularly read books, have been co-opted by our digital world of blog posts, where 300 to 400 word posts are deemed too “wordy.” Even worse, now our written communication must conform to a tool that tries to box us into 140 characters. In that context, David Foster Wallace, and Infinite Jest might just be too goddamn difficult, or “claustrophobic.”

As a writer, I appreciate DFW’s legacy with words. I admit that IJ isn’t an easy read and that his usage has been taxing the two dictionaries I have utilized regularly—both my Pocket Oxford English Dictionary, and the other, more unwieldy New Lexicon Webster’s Dicitonary of the English Language, with its 170,000 definitions and entries (30,000 more than the POED)—neither are sufficient tools for IJ. What current writer strings mixes nouns like “phonemes” and “fricatives,” and an adjective such as “trochaically?”

While it’s convenient for some to accuse Wallace of leaning towards pedantry, crafting prose fat with unfamiliar words to most of the rest of us mere mortals, on the contrary, I think Wallace’s appreciation for words and language is one of the endearing characteristics that I’ve pulled from my reading to date.

Even better, reading Wallace makes me want to write better, and pushes me harder at my own craft.

Infinite disappointment

Since June 23, I've been slogging my way through David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest, a read that I earlier characterized as "claustrophobic." Interestingly, my choice of summer reading material also coincided with an on-the-spot decision to stop being fat.

Over the past nine weeks, I've knocked down 864 (of the required 981) pages in IJ, and also shed 28 pounds. These parallel events even prompted me to even entertain the possibility that there being was a possible connection between the two.

While I've persevered in my quest to conquer IJ, and lay hold to the claim of having completed the long reading cycle, almost entirely ahead of schedule, I'm looking forward to finally being rid of Wallace and his gargantuan work.

Sections of this overly long novel have been interesting, and some have kept me captivated (the Ennet House parts, mainly), but overall, this has been a taxing read, one of the most difficult books I've ever tackled. I empathize with those who have pulled up stakes and abandoned the rest of the group read.

I'm struggling with a desire to project a variety of issues/problems onto Wallace as I forge on to the end. My introduction to DFW's writing came via his nonfiction. Generally, this is my chosen genre to read (as well as work in as a writer). I'm not averse to fiction, however, and more often than not, when I choose to go the novel route, I find it pleasurable, and often an escape hatch from more serious fare. That hasn't been the case with IJ.

[Spoiler Alert] I have really struggled with a couple of incidents in my reading, both invoking dogs, and what I view as pretty sadistic behavior on behalf of Wallace's fictional characters. What I'm alluding to is Ennet House character, Randy Lenz, one of a cast of freaks, addicts, and general low lifes that populate much of IJ. These dregs populate and play a central role in DFW's narrative.

We find Lenz (on page 539) commencing a series of nocturnal outings involving death and mayhem directed towards rats, and then later, cats, and ultimately, his sadism is unleashed on several particularly vicious attacks on dogs. While this is entirely a fictional rendering, Lenz's character and his actions were particularly disturbing to me, and led me to wonder a bit about Wallace's own sentiment towards animals, particularly those of the canine variety.

The chosen method that Lenz ultimately graduates to with dogs involves luring his victim to the end of its chain by dangling a piece of leftover meatloaf (courtesy of Ennet House's culinary wizard, Don Gately) in front of the dog. Lenz then circles behind the dog and manages to slit its throat with a knife. Wallace doesn't spare us details, as we learn that the weapon is a Browning X444 serrated, with its own personal shoulder holster for ease of transport.

The other involves an Incandenza family dog being forgotten, tied to the bumper of the family car, and dragged to a brutal death, this time by young Orrin. I won't go into further detail, but it's another example of a gratuitously violent act against a dog, without much in the way of remorse from the character who perpetrates the act.

When a writer asks you to trust him/her enough to commit to reading a book of 250 to 300 pages, there is a tacit understanding that the reader leaves at the end with something--being entertained, enlightened, transported beyond the mundane four-walled, boring life variety, possibly so captivated by characters that the tension breaks and the relationship is enhanced.

With Wallace and his nonfiction, he always made me feel like I got more than I bargained for, and the expectations were always lived up to. Granted, a good deal of his writing was dense, and even difficult. Always, there was that interminable search through endnotes, which often delivered a golden nugget, although always distracting, and offputting.

With IJ, I'm feeling duped. Because of Infinite Summer, and its cast of guest bloggers, I came to the read prepared for a difficult start and to do some work (one mentioned giving the book to p. 200 before bailing).

With another 100+ pages to go before I hit paydirt, I have appreciated some of the great passages, characters I connected with, and an appreciation for the breadth and scope of the novel. There have also been entire portions/sections that I found nearly unreadable (the entire Canadian, Marathe, Steeply, Assasins des Fauteuils Rollents sections always produced an "oh shit" moment and consequent skim for the next break and segue).

What I'm left with is a sense that while I'll be happy to say "I read Infinite Jest," I'll also be second-guessing and wondering what other books I could have been reading instead, and that 10 or 11 weeks have been taken away and I'll never get them back.

Taking time to read and write

I’m glad that I’m a reader. Rather than provide its partakers with instant gratification that seems to be required of much of our 21st century techno-entertainment options, the pleasure of reading transports us back to a time that is more befitting of the rail car, rather than the transcontinental airliner. Rather than wired cyber-reality, with its circuits and microchips tucked away inside the cold, impersonal computer cabinet, time spent with a book smacks of a decadence befitting the luxury of time. In fact, to read means we’re willing to step outside of our self-imposed imprisonment of cell phones, palm pilots and other devices that seductively promise efficiency, but instead, end up enslaving.

Television, the most seductive time-waster, robs many of time that would be better spent with a book. With the average American watching 30 or more hours of television per week, just turning off the tube for half of that time would allow some time to promote the more healthy habit of reading.

As I get older, I find fewer activities give me the adrenaline rush that was common to my teens, or even early 20s. It may have to do with the aging process, but time spent with good books and discovering new authors, is a pleasure that I’ve come to appreciate (and one that seems resistant to the ravages of time). Rather than subscribing to the biblical adage that “there’s nothing new under the sun” (attributed to King Soloman, btw), books and new authors open up fresh springs of thought, ideas and perspective, or help to validate ideas that have formerly occupied shaky footing.

Before my recent vacation trip to Florida, I found myself making a frenetic visit to my local library. My objective was to score some books that would make good travel companions—if nothing else, pass some of the dullness of airport waiting and take the edge of the claustrophobic confines of budget air travel during my three hour flight.

From my amazing and seemingly random exercise in book browsing amongst the stacks, I haphazardly stumbled upon a book of essays by Jonathan Franzen. Knowing little about this author, the book jacket sounded interesting and with my penchant for well-written and entertaining essays, How To Be Alone (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2002) was selected with slight trepidation. At this point, I knew little about Franzen, the heralded writer of fiction and about his much-publicized un-invitation by Oprah.

How To Be Alone entertained, informed and proved to be one of those books that is read with a sense of foreboding, knowing that it just isn’t going to be long enough and portending its end sooner than you want it too.

Within the literary community, Franzen is apparently often linked to Don DeLillo, Thomas Pynchon and David Foster Wallace. In fact, it was my chance association with Franzen’s work that introduced me to Wallace, a dynamic writer, possessing extraordinary talent in his own right. Like my introduction to Franzen, my first go-round with Wallace comes via his collection of essays, Consider The Lobster, which is the title of one of the essays, which finds him at Rockland’s Lobster Festival and writing about it.

With Franzen, his book of essays led me to purchase his fiction tour-de-force, The Corrections, winner of a National Book Award and apparently on many critics’ best of lists in 2001. All I know is that this novel, with its merciless, satirical look at contemporary life, made for a very readable 566 pages.

Foster’s book of essays is proving to be an enticing introduction to this writer’s work, which I anticipate will lead to my eventually reading his novel, Infinite Jest, which generated much acclaim for the then, 33-year-old writer, when released in 1996.

While somewhat dated, I found an interesting interview, conducted by Laurie Miller, for Salon, from 1996. At the time, Foster was teaching at the University of Indiana/Bloomington. In Consider The Lobster, he has an interesting essay about being in Bloomington, on September 11, 2001.

Life without television is a good thing—if nothing else, it provides time to read the type of writers who motivate me to write and improve my own craft.

Reading material

Writers should be readers. In fact, a number of writers, particularly those writers that teach and instruct about the craft of writing, make strong cases to their students that regular time spent reading is essential, if they want to excel as writers. I agree wholeheartedly with that sentiment.

My own abilities as a writer, especially regarding usage and grammar have more to do with reading than any kind of foundation I acquired during English classes in school. I could not diagram a sentence if my life depended upon it. I would have a hard time breaking down and naming the parts of speech. Yet, because I’ve been a reader since a very early age, I think I’ve acquired an intuitive sense for grammar and English usage.

Most of the books I’ve read over the years—probably 95 percent of them—have been nonfiction. This past year, I’ve read books like this one, by Susan Jacoby. I also read another stellar Jacoby nonfiction work on the freethought movement that became one of several History Maker Mondays I posted for a brief period of time at my other blog. Just prior to Christmas, I completed this one about God and Wal-Mart. These are typical of my orientation and flavor on the nonfiction side. Early in 2009, I read several excellent books about FDR, including Nick Taylor’s very thorough book on the Works Progress Administration. On the occasions that I have picked up a work of fiction, more times than not I’ve enjoyed reading the book. Some of them turned out to be page turners, and I blew through them quickly.

Over Christmas, my son was home for three weeks. A writer, too, Mark is currently enrolled in Brown’s two-year MFA program in Creative Writing.

Over his time away from school and relaxing at home, Mark read an assortment of books, sometimes one a day, with most, if not all of them being ones that were sitting on our bookshelves. This pleased my wife and I, as we’re both readers, and it also impressed me immensely. Not knowing a lot about MFA programs other than that many well-known writers have completed one, if the program demanded their writers immerse themselves in a literary atmosphere of books, readings, and writing for two years, this had to be a good thing.

It’s been interesting to follow Mark’s reading and MFA adventures via his blog. Much like I took an interest in his progress as a baseball player, culminating in a great four-year run at Wheaton College, I’ve been following his writing, first via a zine he created at school, called GMBO. Later, he developed Everyday Yeah, which has now morphed into the official brown mfa blog #1.

One of Mark’s holiday reads was Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. I knew McCarthy’s book had been well-received, and even received a 2007 Pulitzer Prize in Fiction. Heck, it was even featured as one of Oprah’s book picks. Maybe it was because of the latter that I stayed away, or maybe it was for some other reason that I passed on the book.

After Mark read it and wrote the following on New Year’s Day, I decided to reconsider and give it a try:

The Road is the best book I’ve read this year. Maybe even the best book I read in 2009. I read the first 80 pages a few days ago and read the rest of it today. There really is no reason not to read this. It’ll take about eight hours. I’m a slow reader and I almost read it all in one day.

I read McCarthy’s book the following day, in about four hours—all in one setting. It was a great book, and not at all “depressing,” as some reviewers have indicated.

Maybe it had to do with it being about the relationship about boy and his father. Certainly, if you crave nonstop action, The Road will probably be disappointing. For me, however, I think McCarthy’s take on the relationship of the two main characters, their struggles along the road in a bleak, post-apocalyptic world, with a few plot twists thrown in made me want to crave a subsequent follow up read like it—something that was fiction, and a page turner. Not my usual type of book, I know.

After Mark left to return to Brown, I looked around his room to see if there were some other books like The Road lying around. I attempted James Baldwin’s Nobody Knows My Name, about his decade of self-exile in Europe. I got about a quarter of the way into it, before putting it down. Another novel scavenged from our crowded book shelves only to spend two successive nights dozing off and not getting further than 20 pages told me that I needed to move onto something else.

Last week, I stopped at the Maine State Library for a quick peruse of their literary fiction section. I happened to find a collection of Raymond Carver short stories. The book’s captured my attention, and the short story format, not one I usually gravitate to, seems to be just what I need right now, as my reading attention span seems to be shorter than usual.

Carver’s Collected Stories, is published by the Library of America and edited by William L. Stull and Maureen P. Carroll. This collection is the first one that gathered all of his stories in one volume and provides a comprehensive overview of his career. I’m really enjoying it.

I now know why Carver was considered one of the late 20th centuries best fiction writers, and someone that breathed new life into the short story. His writing, held up as an example of what was being called “minimalist” at the time, derives its power more from what is suggested, or left unsaid.

While I don’t think I can match my son’s reading prowess, and certainly not the ambitious book devouring proposed by another blogger, Lisa K, I’m going to try to incorporate regular reading of fiction to start 2010.

2009 was the year I finally conquered David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest along with many others. Maybe 2010 will be my year of mostly fiction, and the year when I finally tackle some of the classics, although I don’t think I’ll limit myself merely to older books. I’m finding an entire stable of newer fiction writers that Mark has referenced via his blog.

In the coming weeks are Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby (an American fiction classic that I’ve never read), Candide, by Voltaire, and maybe some Flannery O’Connor.

I welcome any other fiction suggestions.