Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

This was a project, both mentally (it took months of concentrated reading) and physically (that 15 minute walk to and from the subway with the book in my bag killed my back), but it was worth it. I've been a fan of DFW since I first read his essays, not only for his subject matter (Cruises! State fairs! Grammar! Criticizing Updike and male writers of his ilk! Math!) but his digressive, maximalist writing style, which bears some resemblance to how my brain works. His fiction was next, and I got it into my head that Infinite Jest would make a good summer read.

Infinite Jest has been called an encyclopedic novel by some critics, and its subject matter bears this out, comprised as it is of such disparate narrative strands as the Incandenza family saga (which owes much to Hamlet), the students at an elite tennis academy, the travails of various addicts in the Boston area, a cadre of murderous wheelchaired Quebecois terrorists, the government agents trying to foil their plot, and a mysterious movie that renders viewers incapable of doing anything else, not to mention a number of digressions into film-making, pharmacology, math, and whatever else DFW happened to know a lot about.  Moreover, the narrative flips from viewpoint to viewpoint and jumps around the timeline. As a result, at first the novel seems disjointed, although soon enough things come together and the connections (thematic and plot-related) between the sections become apparent.

Because of his status as a man of letters, some, uh, questionable behavior in his personal life, and the fanboys who've developed a cultish following around him, DFW is often lumped in with other dudebro authors, which is a great injustice in my opinion. Whatever his personal failings, DFW was a supremely sensitive writer who laid bare every weakness, flaw, and insecurity of his characters without an ounce of condescension or contempt. No matter how ugly the narrative got, how awfully a character behaved, the depiction was profoundly humane. Don Gately, the heart of the novel, is a perfect example of this.  When we meet him, his burglary of a house in an attempt to fund his addiction goes horribly wrong, resulting in the death of an innocent man. When we see him next he is in a recovery house, humbly dedicated to helping others. By the end, we have witnessed his heartbreaking childhood, promising adolescence squashed, and debased stint as an addict. It's a phenomenal portrait of a human life, hard to read in some sections, and by far my favorite part of the narrative.

Addiction in all its forms and the human drive to find happiness of some kind are obvious themes of the novel, but the difficulty of communicating with another person recurs throughout. Maranthe and Agent Steeply talk for hours on a mountain attempting to overcome ideological and cultural differences so as to understand each other's goals. The addicts in recovery spend a lot of time figuring out how to tell their stories and listen to others'. Mario is a sensitive person and perceptive in his own way, but has trouble understanding other people because of his intellectual delays. Joelle hosts a radio show, speaking opaquely into the ether as a way of coping with what has happened to her; her dedicated fans project onto her their own issues. James Incandenza spent years trying to express himself and reach others (especially his youngest son) through his numerous films. And Hal, the book's protagonist (but see: Gately) struggles most of all; at times the disparity between what he thinks he is expressing and what others perceive is subtle but startling.  In this way, the novel has much in common with Batuman's The Idiot, although their styles could not be more different.

There's so much more I could write. I spent hours on various websites reading what others had to say about the themes and the characters, reconstructing the timeline and events, and otherwise trying to figure out every element I could. It's the kind of book I wish I were still in school for, and I recommend it heartily. It's not for the faint of heart, but those up for the challenge will find it rewarding.

Everything and More by David Foster Wallace

Given my strong preference for fiction over non-fiction, it's surprising that I haven't read any of David Foster Wallace's novels (although they are on my to-read list).  I have, however, read a lot of his non-fiction, and I adore it and him.  His erudition, wit, linguistic skills, mix of high art and popular culture, and copious footnotes form something I find irresistible.  I particularly recommend his essays on the Illinois State Fair, grammar, cruise ships, John Updike and other writers of his ilk ... you know what? It'll be faster if I recommend all of the works that I've read.

To which I can add Everything and More: a Compact History of Infinity, his "booklet" on the mathematical history and significance of infinity.  I recognize that this won't appeal to everyone, but I thoroughly enjoyed it (and the work-out my brain got).  Although I probably have more mathematical knowledge than the average person, it falls far short of Wallace's own (had he not turned to writing, he could have become a mathematician in his own right).  Wallace does his best to explain the concepts for a layperson, but this particular topic necessarily involves complex math and abstract concepts.  My half-remembered calculus took me far, but eventually I had to just trust Wallace's explanations (not a bad thing).  On the other hand, I think my mathematical knowledge might have actually hampered me on occasion -- it took three reads to really grok Dedekind's definition of real numbers, which included the first successful attempt to construct irrational numbers, I think because I (like everyone else today) take irrationals for granted.

Transfinite numbers involve concepts far removed from ordinary life, concepts that touch on the foundations of mathematics -- are we inventing math, or discovering it? Can it be completely divorced from our reality? Is math real, and what does it mean to say it is real? I find these questions intriguing, so I'd like to read another volume from the publisher's series: Rebecca Goldstein's Incompleteness, about Kurt Godel's work in this area.