week 1 - 7%
Contrary to what Dave Eggers says in his albeit otherwise insightful (and thoughtful) forward to the 10-Year-Anniversary issue of Infinite Jest,
“It demands your full attention (edit-true). It can’t be read at a crowded cafe” (edit- untrue).
I spent the day at noisy Third Place Books, settled in the equivalent of one of those movies that puts you outside of your own life, and fever pitched through the rest of the week’s reading assignment. Then reread some parts and discovered the IJ poker hand, which I was too short attention-spanned to figure out before….in the footnotes, if you thoroughly read the plot lines to James Incandenza’s filmography, you are not only highly entertained, but privy to a little skeleton of the entire, or most of the major plot lines of the book. Hilarious. My favorite movie title is: Good-Looking Men in Small Clever Rooms That Utilize Every Centimeter of Available Space With Mind-Boggling Efficiency. Please tell me that was a short story that became more than the footnote.
At any rate, the second read of this book has so far been incredibly enjoyable. I have my paperback copy that out side of all hesitations I am writing in (something unfortunately the book compels you to do), which is helping me remember the characters better. I have thoroughly taken Marcus Sakey’s advice and have stopped trying to find hidden meaning and answers in the conglomeration of the plot lines (although the compulsion lies in wait). It is rewarding to know something you felt so strongly about a decade ago still resonates so strongly. The farther in you forge into this thing you more you are rewarded, and all the hyperbole is warranted. You can say that with hesitation.
A note. I read the intro chapter on James Incandenza (pg. 63) in it’s entirety and then went of to get ready for work…and realized that indeed the this character is the first in the book to enter the discussion of suicide. It made me gasp a small “oh” while I was in the shower. Subsequently I had an incredibly hard time getting through the Kate Gompert entry (pg. 68), a very obsessive account of depression, suicide and the request for shock treatment. It’s impossible to not think you have stumbled into autobiography.
It is in hindsight this second reading is taking place, and there are things that are disturbing and sad that of course I did not catch before. I can’t remember how much of his work I had consumed during my last reading (most likely only his Harper’s essays). Thematically I see little bits that are intertwined in his other stories. I warned Ben I have entered into an obsessive read again, who replied it is one of the few books he would very much like to reread sometime.
A few things, I feel weird making other people read this, thus have pulled the dual posting mechanism from FB and can’t imagine anyone else I know would find these ramblings interesting. A million (probably an underestimate) people have pontificated endlessly on this book, and I know I am adding not much to the conversation. That being said, I have a strange compulsion to write about it*, so here we are, how ever self-consciously grad-schoolish it seems to be.
PS The thing that made me giggle the most from the filmography footnote: C.N. Reilly.
Charles Nelson Reilly…..there is so much absurdity intact, I wonder how much will be lost on the 25 year old readers.
*from the late 90’s is a gray notebook stuffed into a box somewhere on a high shelf, that contains a lot of notes I scribbled while reading this book this first go around. I will never find it, it might as well not exist at all. I do remember concocting a flimsy thesis about Orin being central to the answer to the book. There is, as we now know, no answer- just the need to read, and re-read the book again looking for little tidbits, scraps of things that might breadcrumb you to a conclusion. It is entirely more enjoyable to read it now with out that constant fear you are missing something central.
dfw wd
Infinite Summer is perhaps an all out DFW fanatics wet dream, and I have decided to participate (thank you Yvette for the tip off). I haven’t read the book since the summer of ‘99, so perhaps we shall see how a decade in between resonates between us and 1079 pages. Also, we shall see how this goes, as the only way I could get through it last time was to binge read it in a week while unemployed…almost making a job of it. Otherwise, my scant attention span could not keep the characters straight. Yet, you might be surprised how often in the past 10 years references from it creep into your consciousness. The Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment will not leave me alone.
I pulled out the old precious 1st edition hard copy, gingerly, until the soon to be bashed paperback edition arrives via snail.
I want to see if the part that is titled WINTER, B.S., 1963, SEPULVEDA CA is still my favorite chapter. Page 491. I think about re-reading it all the time, and now I can find out why.
I hope this is not too self indulgent.
And yes I have been meaning to return here, as I see it has been an entire dry season of spring since we have.
PS Donna said over her dead body would she ever be talked into reading this, especially all the horrific tennis parts, which she could barely get through the tennis parts in Anne Lamott, let alone this. Bizarre as the last time I was reading IJ I was simultaneously reading Crooked Little Heart, which at some point I felt compelled to sink great time slots of thought thinking how strange that was, and how both DFW and Anne Lamott were teenage tennis stars. But we will save that for later. And no, I do not play tennis or like sports.
perhaps happiest of all regarding this vernal equinox
This apparently is turning into a weather blog, and apparently I am obsessed with the fact that this winter is over.
I have been crushing on various thoughts of victory gardens and potagers fueled by the site Skippy’s Vegetable Garden, and hopefully will get my butt out into the yard this weekend.
And look, incredibly excited that the White House is getting a vegetable garden too (aka Skippy).
If Michael Pollan and Barbara Kingsolver are finally making inroads in these here parts, maybe things are looking up after all.
This weekend my own seedlings will get started I hope.
Last grasp of winter - one can hope
I thought I was going to do okay this winter, taking every precaution to remain in an upbeat manner. Yet February nailed me with sickness and March is just feeling relentless: the cold, the blasted ugly landscape, and what not. At least we are getting some daylight back. A rather unproductive hibernation period I must say.
DFW
I haven’t received my copy yet, but my in box tells me the New Yorker this week is basically giving a final salute to David Foster Wallace.
“Fiction’s about what it is to be a fucking human being,” he once said. Good writing should help readers to “become less alone inside.”
I can’t help it, I have and probably always will maintain undying loyalty to his writing, to his person.
Included in the vast coverage:
An analytical piece by D.T. Max called: The Unfinished.
A small sliver of his unfinished novel they are titling: Wiggle Room.
A tiny slide show of one of his manuscripts, and his wife’s art work.
I have often wondered how Karen Green has felt about all of this, she is frequently but a mere shadow in all of the coverage, although perhaps she is a private person, and that I can understand.
Incidentally, haven’t read any of the above yet. With out being dramatic, the thought of it all is still heartbreaking.
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If you are wondering why for god’s sakes one needs to receive the New Yorker in their email in box along with a hard copy received a week late due to West coast time, well good question.
I promised myself the extravagance of this nature (a subscription) could only occur if I didn’t hyperventilate about being constantly behind in reading them. When life intervenes, those New Yorkers pile high, tedious skyscrapers in piles by the bed, on the desk, on the floor.
So it could have been weeks before finding this entire homage to DFW.
That being said, I do enjoy them vastly, and who else is going to spend this much time dedicating pages to such subjects?
__________________________
A small thought for my own amusement. When I lived over there, that other coast, I truly thought the New Yorker was way too fuddy to even bother with. I certainly have settled into fuddiness full bore. With no problems I/R/T that.
gardens and all that
Garden show = pseudo motivation.
I realized that it’s that time of year - and I suppose this will always be true: when the witch hazel goes into bloom- it’s that desperate hour of winter. Well, not so much desperate so much, as just I’m dreadfully ready for it to go away.
I have not been in the yard for weeks, maybe months. I stepped out there to survey the damage this week and witnessed the mangy looking hellebores, the luckily stunning (and self sufficient) witch hazel and strangely, full bloom primroses. All being wasted, no eyes have set sites on this at all this month. Many plants have died this season, and along with the neglect that arrived around August last year, I am feeling a much more cautious gardener. I can’t be trusted.
We’re keeping the upcoming plans to a dull roar this year. Only seeds. Now I have to actually plant them.
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This has been a strange winter. Horrible weather, too much snow and cold. But not everlastingly depressing like last year. I have resigned myself to the knowledge I can only occupy myself with activities that will actually occur over the course of a week. One little bite size thing that can actually be accomplished. This means an incredible lowering (many notches) of any ambition that was attempting to come around.
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I don’t think I am exaggerating when I say I think the shoe is getting ready to drop. The what will happen tension has become deafening. I think the next few months are going to be a nice little tightrope walk into the future for just about everyone I know.
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I watched the movie Outsourced tonight and felt that twinge of travel bug that hasn’t been fulfilled for quite some time. I want to go to India- I need to see color, a change of pace, a different way of taking in the world. For the time being I will have to relish the thought via movies and books. Someday though.
Happy Newest Year
Let’s hope for a much, much, better year. Hello 2009.
Merry Christmas!
This might be the most memorable holiday of recent memory.
After being housebound for 4 days, a walk of a mile or so in the ice (attempting to be slush) to the grocery store, to find it had just lost power.
People were pushing shoping carts in near darkness, some magically produced flashlights on their bodies. The fish and dairy staff were freaking out over the refrigeration situation, other staff displayed a near mutiny stance in dealing with the public. It was very strange. All for a little egg nog.
Most people were rushing around on foot doing very last minute Christmas shopping. Those that decided to drive found themselves stuck all over the place.
A very strange week indeed, and funny I think the sentiment of a White Christmas has lost its luster. That’s okay though, we are warm and inside.
Haller Lake is beautiful today…and frozen solid.
I know this only as while I peacefully looked out at the snow scape, a snowball launched out of no where and bounced off the surface of the lake.
The suspect, a glaring teenage boy slumped off stage left and disappeared.
Bird Farming
At 9:30 this morning Ben said he saw a humming bird fly by our window.
Yesterday he’d brought the humming bird feeder in as it was frozen solid, happily now defrosted.
It snowed about 5″ last night, and I realized it was time to get the bird farm back together.
The snow is pretty, and I can’t recall the last time we had this much…however, we’re feeling a little house bound today.
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