.valis.

When did everything become so detail-oriented? I find myself asking this more and more these days, rhetorically, of course. It would be daft to expect an answer to the question. Still, it hangs in the air, like a word balloon from a comic book, visible to only me but somehow sensed by everyone else. Like the thundercloud that follows cartoon characters. Its a curse of my introspective nature, I suppose. Some people question the details, and what they are, and what they represent; I question the need for them in the first place.

I've been biding my time, waiting for the right moment to... I don't know yet. My mind has started to feel as if its preparing for some momentous flash of insight, when I will suddenly understand everything; I'll know what's wrong with me, why the world is that way it is, why the planets are misaligned, what the hidden secret of pi is, the name of the gnostic god, how many licks does it take, the actuality of the universal constant... It will all be revealed. But... my practical side realizes this is a blind rationalization, and that more than likely I will spend my entire life waiting for a moment that will never come. Though I suppose that's life, such as it is. We swim in the spaces between content and context.


I don't pretend to understand the whims and whiles of my brain chemistry. Philip K. Dick said, "Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away." As a generally faithless person, this brings me some small comfort.

Infinite Jest.

Infinite Jest, a novel by David Foster Wallace released in 1996, is quite possibly the most dense and literate book I've read (of my own choice) thus far in my life (and keep in mind, I've read The Silmarillion.) But don't let that fool you: I loved it.

Obstenibly a "sci-fi" story (though not in any way I would say), Infinite Jest is about (alternately) a tennis academy, a drug/alcohol treatment house, avant-garde cinema, game theory, addiction, nationalism, love, abuse, damaged childhoods, the connections between people, ghosts, commercialism, and the burdens of intellect. And endnotes, lots of endnotes. And just in writing that list, I have left out about 18 things. As you can see, it's a well-stocked book. The most amazing thing, though, is that it is a wonderfully written and coherent narrative, with viewpoint shifts mid-"chapter" (in quotes because there obstenibly ARE no chapters, just time-stamps), brilliantly drawn characters, and much left unsaid that can be drawn from context clues. If you know me and my reading habits at all, then you know this book is probably one of the purest examples of what I like to read ever produced.


The best part, according to me (and I'm my favorite person), is the plethora of endnotes, many of which contain vital pieces of plot, narrative, and character detail that are almost indispensible in understanding the narrative. Woe to those that ignore them.

Anyway, it's very hard to write a review of this in any impartial way, since I enjoyed the book so much. All I want to do is fill ten paragraphs with "OMG", like I was some 14 year old girl talking about Bobby Sherman, or whoever it is the kids love these days. Suffice to say I heartily recommend this to any- and everyone who likes to read. At all. Ever.


Do it. Now.