To begin...

I can't start my new life as a reviewer of books anywhere else other than with the majestic, sweeping vision of David Foster Wallace, and if I'm going to talk about Mr Wallace, I can't talk about anything other than the intriguing, infuriating, painful and spell binding 'Infinite Jest'

- I intend to review things as I read them, but for this book I have to make an exception -

Yes this may be a book that's been in fashion, yes it may at first glance appear to be nothing more than intelectual and linguistic masturbation, pointless and deliberately obtuse. Persevere and you find an intricate tapastry of naratives and an unparraleled observational genius. This is a book with the power to overwhelm you, and drown you in the sheer richness of it's warped vision.

Central to the story is the topic of addiction, much of the action is set in in the backwaters of the world, amongst recovering addicts of all forms and in the hiding places people go to indulge in their addictions. The notion of entertainment as addiction is key to the central thread of the book and binds the loose collection of character together. It's difficult to read it without considering the nature of your own habits and addictions.

This book exists to be read 3,4,5 times at least. Not only is there Wallace's style to contend with - why use one word, when twelve will do, "The rising astral venus, lit his face to the colour of pallid cheese..." It's also impossible to follow the plot in a conventional way. The text is full of footnotes, which take you to further storys and background, explanations of definitions and occaisional moments of wit where the authors voice appears to comment on the events.

The main joy of this work for me, is the precision with which Wallace carves his images and crafts the internal dialogue of his characters. Locations like the Enfield Tennis Academy and Ennet House become like a background for the readers life, nevermind the action of the book. It's impossible not to laugh at the wierdly dysfunctional and awkward characters, yet as with most of his work, that laughter is always with a wince.

With Wallace, more than any author, despite all the distance he creates through the way he constructs a convoluted and difficult work deliberately I get the sense of the author grappling with himself and his own sense of being. Perhaps that is why I love him so deeply, because he is confusing and complex and difficult.

This is an awkward book, by an awkward man, a self critical and at times obviously self loathing individual. Yet the highest praise I can possibly give it is to say it is a living, organic, evolving work of fiction, one that challenges and rewards the reader in equal measure. A book that never patronises or relies on cheap cliche' and one that had profound impact on the way I think of language and fiction today.

Maybe it won't change your life but it changed the way I think of the novel, changed the way I viewed writing. Janet Street Porter described his last collection of short storys by saying dreadful, self indulgent, what is the point? She writes lifestyle columns for broadsheets, I think that say's it all. The only phrase she's ever written that stuck in my head was along the lines 'Y'know when your in Knightsbridge....' I would call that pointless, dreadful and self indulgent. When she's written something I can read three times and still not feel like I've read, I will respect her opinion.

Just flicking through the work I'm reminded of locations and characters and feelings, journeys, colours, games, a freakish perspective that somehow holds truth. The book feels like electricity in my hands. If fiction this powerful is pointless then I'm all for self indulgence.
tangerinedream.