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A review by thepurplebookwyrm
Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace
challenging
dark
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
1.75
Fuck this book. My brain hurts.
Several days later...
My brain still hurts, but I shall do my best to structure my thoughts and feelings about this bish into a semi-coherent review.
Premise:
Sike! Just kidding, this fucker doesn't really have a plot.
But fiiiiiiine...
-> Ya got Harold (yes, seriously) Incandenza, a teen prodigy studying at a tennis academy founded by his father, bopping along with his friends and getting addicted to cannabis.
-> Ya got the rest of the Incandenza family doing stuff and things.
-> Ya got a bunch of drug addicts doing drugs, fucking up their lives because they do drugs, and trying to turn their lives around at the Ennet Recovery House, all more or less centring on a character named Don Gately.
-> Ya got a government agent from the US conversing (for way too long, holy shit, and over lots of separate chapters) with a double agent from a group of Quebec separatists, about the merits and demerits of 'Murican Freedom™, and how this all relates back to brain-washing (literally) entertainment.
And it's all more or less set in a quasi-dystopian near-future when bits of north-eastern America are no longer inhabited because... something to do with "nuclear" waste actually re-wilding shit à la Area X, kinda (if I got that right). And bits of Canada aren't really... independent anymore (if I got that right). Calendar years are sponsored by various brands because not-so-subtle theming on consumerism and entertainment (and addiction). The Internet isn't really a thing like it actually is in the real world, but nor does it actually resemble cyberpunk-ish propositions. Rather, people watch a lot of tailored content on 'teleputers', and that's about it.
Oh, and there's a fuck ton of endnotes, most of which are pointless (don't fucking @ me), given they just give you pharmaceutical information on various mood- and consciousness-altering substances (a fair few of which aren't even in circulation anymore, but whatevs).
Rambling thoughts (because why shouldn't they be giving the book itself is an abject rambling mess):
1) Plot, structure or rather lack thereof: I want to formally apologise to every book I ever criticised for their lack of proper and/or conventional structure. I was but a Sweet Summer Child who clearly didn't know what true chaos of form entailed in literature. Because holy shit: Infinite Jest, in my book, barely even qualifies as a novel. There is no real plot to speak of. The structure is a sprawling mess of indulgent excess. And no, I don't give a fuck that this was probably by design, and part of the supposed "point". This shit, right here, is why peeps make fun of 'Post-Modernism' in the Arts, gah dayum. Fiction literature is a storytelling art form: I will die on this (subjective, sure, but so what!) hill, and given Infinite Jest barely, just barely, tells a cogent and meaningful story, it barely qualifies as fiction literature, as a novel. That's just how it is for me.
It was a mess: nothing justified those 1400 pages. Because what little meaningful commentary, theming, emotionality there was in this text was completely obliterated by the sheer mass of "litbabble" inflating, bloating, padding it out. Reading Infinite Jest felt like I was being force-fed words! And it made me realise that 'Horseshoe Theory' can in fact be applied to literature: if flat and too-sparse writing seldom achieves much in terms of conveying ideas, emotions, meaning, what have you, neither does its indulgently, bloatedly excessive counterpart! I sure learned that the hard way... fuck me. 🥲
2) Prose, I guess: not that it was all bad in terms of prose? I'll give Wallace this: I can tell the man could, in fact, write, in the sense that he could competently, and more or less effectively at times, switch between different writing styles. But being able to do that doesn't mean one should just shove all of them in one book, and cut them up across wildly dissonant chapters like he did. The amount of tonal whiplash I experienced reading Infinite Jest was insane. Hell, the structural whiplash I experienced wasn't any better, to come back to that. Obscenely long walls of text –not to mention obscenely long fucking sentences – alternated with snappy dialogues, drug-fuelled internal monologues, email transcripts, serialised anecdotes and political meeting minutes. Just why the actual fuck was it written that way?! Yes, it did reek of "try-hardism" in places, sue me. I didn't even mind the vocabulary: it wasn't that advanced, all things considered, but like... why am I not bothered by this shit when Miéville or Nabokov does it, hmm? Because their vocabulary gets woven into their narratives in a way that feels seamless and organic!
3) Characters: I didn't care about anyone, or anything in Infinite Jest. What I find really bizarre, however, is that for something that is 1400 pages long, I found Infinite Jest's character work surprisingly superficial, across most of its protagonists. It's not that it was non-existent, or even bad per se, but more so that I expected a lot more depth given the sheer hugeness of this... 'pseudo-tale'.
4) World-building: this one is really freaking weird genre-wise. Infinite Jest primarily reads as general fiction, yes, but it is technically set in the near-future (as imagined in the 1980s/90s by Wallace), and features a North American landscape that is a little different from our own. And I think this genre-bending choice was, not only entirely unnecessary for the book's theming (such as I read it), but just... really poorly executed. Because it was under-developed, or rather developed in a way too narrow, and thus uncommitted fashion. I felt, at times, like I was reading dystopian or lite science-fiction that has aged really, and I mean really badly – think something rather mediocre written in, say, the 1960s. If you contrast this to the kind of mild and subtle world-building you find in Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale or Butler's Parable of the Sower, Infinite Jest doesn't come off as thoughtfully prescient, it comes off as incredibly clunky – even old-fashioned in some respects.
And I repeat, its theming did not need this weird, 'speculative literature-lite' framing. Or, conversely, if Wallace really wanted to play with the idea of dystopian 'entertainment-addiction', he should've committed more fully to sheer speculation because, as it stands, I'd argue freaking Brave New World does that shit way better, and in a much more concise, not to mention memorable, manner. Basically, Wallace's chonker suffers from vaguely residing in that wishy-washy nothing genre-space 'magically realist' novels occupy.
5) Theming: the only merit I found in Infinite Jest (because no, it wasn't all negative, hence the two stars) were its bits of commentary, theming... on addiction. And, sure, linked to that: mental illness, despair, and entertainment – kind of. I say 'kind of' because, really, at the end of the day, entertainment itself is critiqued through the lens of addiction, and the destruction it wreaks on individuals and, fine, society with regards to questions of individual freedom, responsibility, etc... Though really, I think the individual tragedy of addiction is what comes through the text the most.
And yes, I'm aware this, alongside depression, is something with which Wallace was intimately familiar. This is probably why the latter point comes through the text as strongly as it does: as a fellow mental illness sufferer, I could definitely tell Wallace wrote a lot of the addiction and depression stuff straight from the source of painful experience. And as it so happens... the best parts, by lightyears, of the book were indeed (some of) those that dealt with the horror of addiction, and/or the agony of severe depression.
What maddens me, however, is that so much of that was then lost in the freaking sauce of the book's inherent, indulgent excess. And I'm left with this question: was the "Haha, gotchu!" aspect of the book – reflecting the indulgent excess of addiction by being, itself, indulgently excessive in style – really worth it, given I felt it took away from its thematic and emotional impact? I really don't think so. It's near impossible to pull off this kind of... meta-critique (I don't think that's the right concept, but fuck it) because, 90% of the time, you just end up reifying the thing you're trying to criticise. And I just don't think Wallace pulled it off.
The ending pissed me off. I'm not sure I fully "got it", but whatever, I was so fucking done with this bish. No, I didn't read every single endnote, because fuck off with that honestly and, quite frankly, if you think that emulates the 'feeling of a tennis match': a) you've never actually watched tennis, and/or b) you've never played tennis. I actually have played tennis, and seen my fair share of tennis because my parents watched a lot of it on telly. Guess what: tennis goes pretty freaking fast. But you know what doesn't go pretty freaking fast? Me having to take 10 to 20 fucking minutes to read a goddamn endnote that takes me out of the main text! So I call massive bullshit.
I was originally recommended Infinite Jest by my ex. I kinda get why he relates to this, in places, and it kind of breaks my heart honestly. But outside of that, I don't understand what he, or anyone else, finds funny about this one. Because for me, Wallace's magnum opus wasn't so much an Infinite Jest as it was, well... a Bad Joke.
PS: okay, fine, the whole 'Eschaton' thing was actually pretty funny, in a very fucked up dark humour sort of way – my ex gets exactly one point there.
Several days later...
My brain still hurts, but I shall do my best to structure my thoughts and feelings about this bish into a semi-coherent review.
Premise:
Sike! Just kidding, this fucker doesn't really have a plot.
But fiiiiiiine...
-> Ya got Harold (yes, seriously) Incandenza, a teen prodigy studying at a tennis academy founded by his father, bopping along with his friends and getting addicted to cannabis.
-> Ya got the rest of the Incandenza family doing stuff and things.
-> Ya got a bunch of drug addicts doing drugs, fucking up their lives because they do drugs, and trying to turn their lives around at the Ennet Recovery House, all more or less centring on a character named Don Gately.
-> Ya got a government agent from the US conversing (for way too long, holy shit, and over lots of separate chapters) with a double agent from a group of Quebec separatists, about the merits and demerits of 'Murican Freedom™, and how this all relates back to brain-washing (literally) entertainment.
And it's all more or less set in a quasi-dystopian near-future when bits of north-eastern America are no longer inhabited because... something to do with "nuclear" waste actually re-wilding shit à la Area X, kinda (if I got that right). And bits of Canada aren't really... independent anymore (if I got that right). Calendar years are sponsored by various brands because not-so-subtle theming on consumerism and entertainment (and addiction). The Internet isn't really a thing like it actually is in the real world, but nor does it actually resemble cyberpunk-ish propositions. Rather, people watch a lot of tailored content on 'teleputers', and that's about it.
Oh, and there's a fuck ton of endnotes, most of which are pointless (don't fucking @ me), given they just give you pharmaceutical information on various mood- and consciousness-altering substances (a fair few of which aren't even in circulation anymore, but whatevs).
Rambling thoughts (because why shouldn't they be giving the book itself is an abject rambling mess):
1) Plot, structure or rather lack thereof: I want to formally apologise to every book I ever criticised for their lack of proper and/or conventional structure. I was but a Sweet Summer Child who clearly didn't know what true chaos of form entailed in literature. Because holy shit: Infinite Jest, in my book, barely even qualifies as a novel. There is no real plot to speak of. The structure is a sprawling mess of indulgent excess. And no, I don't give a fuck that this was probably by design, and part of the supposed "point". This shit, right here, is why peeps make fun of 'Post-Modernism' in the Arts, gah dayum. Fiction literature is a storytelling art form: I will die on this (subjective, sure, but so what!) hill, and given Infinite Jest barely, just barely, tells a cogent and meaningful story, it barely qualifies as fiction literature, as a novel. That's just how it is for me.
It was a mess: nothing justified those 1400 pages. Because what little meaningful commentary, theming, emotionality there was in this text was completely obliterated by the sheer mass of "litbabble" inflating, bloating, padding it out. Reading Infinite Jest felt like I was being force-fed words! And it made me realise that 'Horseshoe Theory' can in fact be applied to literature: if flat and too-sparse writing seldom achieves much in terms of conveying ideas, emotions, meaning, what have you, neither does its indulgently, bloatedly excessive counterpart! I sure learned that the hard way... fuck me. 🥲
2) Prose, I guess: not that it was all bad in terms of prose? I'll give Wallace this: I can tell the man could, in fact, write, in the sense that he could competently, and more or less effectively at times, switch between different writing styles. But being able to do that doesn't mean one should just shove all of them in one book, and cut them up across wildly dissonant chapters like he did. The amount of tonal whiplash I experienced reading Infinite Jest was insane. Hell, the structural whiplash I experienced wasn't any better, to come back to that. Obscenely long walls of text –not to mention obscenely long fucking sentences – alternated with snappy dialogues, drug-fuelled internal monologues, email transcripts, serialised anecdotes and political meeting minutes. Just why the actual fuck was it written that way?! Yes, it did reek of "try-hardism" in places, sue me. I didn't even mind the vocabulary: it wasn't that advanced, all things considered, but like... why am I not bothered by this shit when Miéville or Nabokov does it, hmm? Because their vocabulary gets woven into their narratives in a way that feels seamless and organic!
3) Characters: I didn't care about anyone, or anything in Infinite Jest. What I find really bizarre, however, is that for something that is 1400 pages long, I found Infinite Jest's character work surprisingly superficial, across most of its protagonists. It's not that it was non-existent, or even bad per se, but more so that I expected a lot more depth given the sheer hugeness of this... 'pseudo-tale'.
4) World-building: this one is really freaking weird genre-wise. Infinite Jest primarily reads as general fiction, yes, but it is technically set in the near-future (as imagined in the 1980s/90s by Wallace), and features a North American landscape that is a little different from our own. And I think this genre-bending choice was, not only entirely unnecessary for the book's theming (such as I read it), but just... really poorly executed. Because it was under-developed, or rather developed in a way too narrow, and thus uncommitted fashion. I felt, at times, like I was reading dystopian or lite science-fiction that has aged really, and I mean really badly – think something rather mediocre written in, say, the 1960s. If you contrast this to the kind of mild and subtle world-building you find in Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale or Butler's Parable of the Sower, Infinite Jest doesn't come off as thoughtfully prescient, it comes off as incredibly clunky – even old-fashioned in some respects.
And I repeat, its theming did not need this weird, 'speculative literature-lite' framing. Or, conversely, if Wallace really wanted to play with the idea of dystopian 'entertainment-addiction', he should've committed more fully to sheer speculation because, as it stands, I'd argue freaking Brave New World does that shit way better, and in a much more concise, not to mention memorable, manner. Basically, Wallace's chonker suffers from vaguely residing in that wishy-washy nothing genre-space 'magically realist' novels occupy.
5) Theming: the only merit I found in Infinite Jest (because no, it wasn't all negative, hence the two stars) were its bits of commentary, theming... on addiction. And, sure, linked to that: mental illness, despair, and entertainment – kind of. I say 'kind of' because, really, at the end of the day, entertainment itself is critiqued through the lens of addiction, and the destruction it wreaks on individuals and, fine, society with regards to questions of individual freedom, responsibility, etc... Though really, I think the individual tragedy of addiction is what comes through the text the most.
And yes, I'm aware this, alongside depression, is something with which Wallace was intimately familiar. This is probably why the latter point comes through the text as strongly as it does: as a fellow mental illness sufferer, I could definitely tell Wallace wrote a lot of the addiction and depression stuff straight from the source of painful experience. And as it so happens... the best parts, by lightyears, of the book were indeed (some of) those that dealt with the horror of addiction, and/or the agony of severe depression.
What maddens me, however, is that so much of that was then lost in the freaking sauce of the book's inherent, indulgent excess. And I'm left with this question: was the "Haha, gotchu!" aspect of the book – reflecting the indulgent excess of addiction by being, itself, indulgently excessive in style – really worth it, given I felt it took away from its thematic and emotional impact? I really don't think so. It's near impossible to pull off this kind of... meta-critique (I don't think that's the right concept, but fuck it) because, 90% of the time, you just end up reifying the thing you're trying to criticise. And I just don't think Wallace pulled it off.
The ending pissed me off. I'm not sure I fully "got it", but whatever, I was so fucking done with this bish. No, I didn't read every single endnote, because fuck off with that honestly and, quite frankly, if you think that emulates the 'feeling of a tennis match': a) you've never actually watched tennis, and/or b) you've never played tennis. I actually have played tennis, and seen my fair share of tennis because my parents watched a lot of it on telly. Guess what: tennis goes pretty freaking fast. But you know what doesn't go pretty freaking fast? Me having to take 10 to 20 fucking minutes to read a goddamn endnote that takes me out of the main text! So I call massive bullshit.
I was originally recommended Infinite Jest by my ex. I kinda get why he relates to this, in places, and it kind of breaks my heart honestly. But outside of that, I don't understand what he, or anyone else, finds funny about this one. Because for me, Wallace's magnum opus wasn't so much an Infinite Jest as it was, well... a Bad Joke.
PS: okay, fine, the whole 'Eschaton' thing was actually pretty funny, in a very fucked up dark humour sort of way – my ex gets exactly one point there.
Content Warnings
Moderate: Drug abuse and Mental illness
Minor: Animal cruelty and Sexual violence
Drug abuse and mental illness – depression specifically – are central themes/thematic explorations of Infinite Jest. Some characters, who are drug addicts, also talk about their experiences with sexual violence, or with harming animals.