The Crazy Part of Me

I am reading Infinite Jest and only Infinite Jest. Well, at least until I need a break.  And that will happen.  But it will pull at me and call to me even when it repulses me.  

David Foster Wallace is apparently my drug of choice.  He makes me think too much.  His writing is a frustrating fixation, the intake of which I promise myself I can control (denial? Is it a river?).  I love his Vulcan-like intellect, but it wears me out and impacts my sleep.  I love everything about his style, but it can be infuriating at times and makes me see too much behind my eyelids.  I find truths of human psychology and gallows humor scattered in a field of tar and sap.

Dave brought up an analogy of DFW as my "crazy bitch" and I can't shout that down.  I just read Of Human Bondage, by W. Summerset Maugham, which featured a classic terrible girlfriend in American literature.  And, as Dave so well explained, I may have found my "Mildred."

Before I subject the internet to a basic text conversation that led to the analogy, I offer a bit of background.  I read The Pale King early in 2013 and loved it despite its trudging pace. (you can read that Here).  I started IJ shortly thereafter. It was good, but I had other book obligations and decided that IJ requires a certain level of concentration.  So, I proceeded to devour other books, assigned books, and my final book club book to clear the path for my one true fix.  

I have enjoyed my other books, but my peripheral has never lost sight of Infinite Jest.  And, for me, it isn't just about DFW the writer (OK, it is, but not quite 100%), but the subject matter itself as well.  I have written before that the farcical view is often therapeutic and there are parts of my day-to-day life that require a certain level of gallows humor for survival. I'll just say I often see the worst of many parts of life, and a systematically farcical look at a serious world is extremely appealing to me as an intellectual journey and exercise.  

Last week, I finally zeroed in on IJ exclusively.

Mid-Term Report - Joe

Well, this won't take long.  Year of the Big Book has made my mid-term report seem pretty simple.  It seems like I haven't finished anything this year.  But, I'm working on some brilliant  big books that will be finished much later (see, Jest, Infinite).  I will star my early favorites, but my two big books currently under consideration but not yet finish (The Count of Monte Cristo and Infinite Jest) loom very very large on that list.

In fact, I am having such an "experience" with IJ that I will be posting regular updates, which may or may not feature the text exchanges it has inspired.  More on that later.  So, although I think I've read too many short books, I have proof that I am working on some bigger ones:

So, without further ado.

I thought the title referred to alcohol....

"Youth is wasted on the Young." - George Bernard Shaw

"I mean, fuck, Joe, these goddamn teenagers don't even know what they are saying, and they say the most brilliant fucking things, and they follow it up by saying something unbelievably fucking stupid, and it's ridiculous." - some asshole

I was, at one point in my life, thinking I was going to follow in my mother's footsteps and be a teacher. The plan was to teach elementary school kids, because I honestly thought you had to be insane to work with the older youth. Teenagers have always been strange, worrisome creatures for me, even/especially when I was a teenager. Someone who is just realizing their power, without any guide how to use it, to me that's disorienting to engage, because how can you have an idea what someone is going to do or say when they don't even know from minute-to-minute? Thanks, but I'll stick with the 8 year-olds.*

Of Human Bondage - Review

(Mildred is a horrible person)

Of Human Bondage is a unique "Bildungsroman" (coming-of-age story) and made me think in more diverse ways than many of the genre.  Baggs assigned it to me for this year and it was well worth it.

It was easy to relate to whether mundane or deep; it thoroughly explores personal and mental growth; and it exposes in a painfully-realistic example how ultimately vulnerable we all are to circumstances.

Phillip Carey has a club foot.  We all have a club foot in one sense or another.  Replace "club foot" with anything (lisp, stutter, lazy eye, weight problem, flat feet, etc. etc.) and you can relate.  This book most reminded me of how The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break made me and everyone I know who read it feel.  Anyone could understand what it must be like to be the only Minotaur in any given room.  The analogy becomes what it must for the reader.

The Rise of Ransom City-review

The Rise of Ransom City by Felix Gilman
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Written as an autobiography of Harry Ransom, an alternate history version of Nikola Tesla, wandering the not-quite-America-but-kind-of-America from The Half-Made World. I liked that Gilman did not just fall back to Liv and John from the first book, and decided to tell a new person's story. I, in turn, liked that Liv and John showed up early, to assist with Ransom's story. And I liked that it was written as Ransom's autobiography, the story he's telling you. I did, until I didn't.

Book Tidbits

It's been a week full of analysis.  A brutal literary attack was unleashed on the larger part of the general public; three literary giants jousted for my attention; and a shocking impact will be made on my top-20-books-of-all-time list. 

Game of Devastation

The first piece of analysis comes on the heels of our massive Song of Ice and Fire chat transcript.  I felt joy in the brutality of the Red Wedding being unleashed on the TV-only Game of Thrones fans.  Finally, the rest of the public can share in the pain of George R.R. Martin's brilliant mind.  Here, enjoy this bit:



I am ashamed to admit just how much I drank this in and frantically searched for reaction.  Twitter was a real-time parade of fantastic reactions and I could not look away.  It was like trying to walk past a "truck vs. clown car" head-on collision without rubbernecking. 

It was like there were clown shoes, red noses and make-up-stained tires everywhere.  I think I saw a trick-flower dramatically rinsing some blood (or paint) from a small part of asphalt.