After two weeks of carrying Infinite Jest down avenues, holding it up the thousand page tome in the bath tub, propping the weight up with my hands, turning from Hal Incandenza to an endnote and back again, my wrist hurts.
I can’t help but think David Foster Wallace played a cruel trick on his female readers. As I get deeper and deeper into the admittedly boyish book, my wrist feels used and strained.
Whoever said reading was mental masturbation wasn’t too far off.
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Infinite Best « Subway Philosophy // July 14, 2009 at 12:20 am |
[...] sweat through David Foster Wallace together in a sick, modern mind race designed to pit my brain, but mostly my biceps and free time, against others in the pursuit of intellectual, and might I had worthless, [...]