If Infinite Jest were a bowling score, it would be 300. Perfect! It's literature's equivalent of facing the minimum twenty-seven batters in a nine inning game of baseball and retiring everybody who steps into the batter's box.
|Of the four editions pictured above, I own three.|
Which edition do you think I don't own?
"Get away from her! Yes! The book you're about to hold! Infinite Jest!" I boomed, "the sow is mine!" And then my head spun round in sinister circles and I spewed split pea soup like a gushing fire hydrant in the general direction of the geek; and the geek, with his poor taste in music with the Gin Blossoms (good riddance!) fled for his life from the literary fiction aisle of The Bookman in Orange, CA.
Nah, not really; Wallace is still the best by far! But hey, there's nothing innately wrong with literary hills in the first place, right? I've come to appreciate the lesser mountain ranges in literature. And wildflowers, after all, bloom brilliantly in the hills here in Southern California every spring, don't they? So hills can be beautiful and breathtaking too.
True, wildflowers bloom, they do, but Wallace, premiere mountaineer, almost ruined me for fiction; even with an appreciation for less imposing peaks, I just can't shake his overarching influence and legacy. He put me, anonymous reader, on his genius back and lugged me to the top of Mount Everest. And I just can't see the point in bowling again.