I recently finished Infinite Jest and can easily place it in my top five favorite novels (the strange dream I had didn’t foretell the story, by the way). In the world of Infinite Jest, years are no longer numbered (i.e. 2014), but instead take the name of the top corporate bidders in a system known as subsidized time (i.e. Year of the Tucks Medicated Pad, Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment, etc.). So far, my 2014 has felt like the Year of David Foster Wallace.
It was February when I first picked up Oblivion, and since then I’ve read 1761 of his pages and I’m still jonesing for more. By my calculations I have 2815 pages left to finish off his whole catalog. This is fairly normal for me, as I frequently obsess over one artist for an extended period of time. Even now as I try to broaden my reading to help my writing, the genius of David Foster Wallace is just too compelling to stay away.
It’s safe to say that every year from 1994 to 2000 could have been called my Years of David Lynch (my longest, deepest obsession to date). Since then I’ve had several Years of Stanley Kubrick, two Years of Andrei Tarkovsky, one Year of Philip K. Dick, a Year of Barry Gifford, a Year of Tom Robbins, a Year of Lars von Trier, at least one Year of Thomas Pynchon, and it would only be fair to call 2011 the Year of George R. R. Martin.
What happens is that I read or watch or listen to one artist’s work for the first time, and I get such a surge of pleasure I usually acquire the rest of his/her oeuvre all at once like an addict, working through it with only a few odds and ends thrown in for contrast. Fortunately, it’s rare to find an artist that turns all my cranks the way Wallace does, so I rarely have to binge this way. But when I do find a new addiction my interest in other entertainments seems to drop off.
And this tendency is exactly what’s explored in Infinite Jest. Our culture’s addiction to different forms of entertainment is exploded into view; from oral narcotics to professional sports to lethally indulgent movies, Infinite Jest explores the cravings we have to abandon ourselves to something greater, something potentially more meaningful than our own thoughts and self-reflection, something that offers us self-transcendence.
And I did get lost in it. I was fairly heartbroken when it was over. I had come to love these characters; when they were bummed out, I was bummed out for them; when they were in trouble, I was worried; and when I turned the last page, I wanted somehow to slip inside the world of Infinite Jest to see if they’ll be okay.
The book’s title, like A Clockwork Orange, is taken from a work of fiction within the work of fiction. The Infinite Jest within Infinite Jest is an experimental film so compelling, once people have caught a glimpse, they’ll give anything to keep watching it. They’re locked in; they forget to eat or go to the bathroom, and when it’s all over, they’re willing to do unspeakable acts for another viewing.
David Foster Wallace has managed, with Infinite Jest, to create a work of fiction just this side of dangerously compelling. His prose has all the audacity and skill of Pynchon’s, and his ability to create flawed, idiosyncratic, sympathetic characters is second to none. And since Wallace is so culturally aware, and his writings so replete with artistic references, I imagine it won’t be long, once I’ve finished the rest of his work, to find a new addiction.
Sometimes the easiest way out one addiction is to ease into another, less absorbing one. Feel free to recommend any artists I should check out.