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We do not want you to waste previous hours reading whole chapters only to discover that your recording is unusable due to a preventable technical glitch. A book coordinator commonly abbreviated BC in the forum is a volunteer who manages all the other volunteers who will record chapters for a LibriVox recording. I mean, really. Who could possibly be unsatisfied in this First World conglomerate of ours, where the water is cheap and the food cheaper, everything clean and crisp and catered and tailored and custom built for even the most persnickety of personalities?
Oh, you say you're not feeling well? Well, your temperature's drawn up at the right line, your lungs are clear of fluid, no physical aches to be registered on any limb or crevice. No need for a tox screen, it's obvious that since you are athletic and intelligent and your family is well adjusted, it's impossible that you would even consider recreational drugs.
It just wouldn't make sense. And when these people are forced up close to those with intimate knowledge of the difference between hip-ennui and 'It'; the obvious mismatch of an unsatisfactory sex life and a rabid Spider masquerading as your own Personal Nightmare that has somehow escaped the sewers and lodged itself in your frontal lobe. A hawk in the sky and a handsaw on the nightstand. These people, they shame the "psychotically depressed", they box the sufferers up in a cynical outlook that doesn't allow them to treat their condition seriously, and the barest glimpse of a true outburst of "feeling" is quickly carted away and shut up in the walls of their own imagined loony bin.
You call attempted suicides "Cries for Attention", after refusing to listen to anything else. And don't blame this on the availability of therapy. That's another bucket of worms entirely. So what does the average, normal, not "psychotically depressed" individual do? Well, they have been blessed with a stable brain chemistry that is sufficiently satisfied with their addictions, enough to never entertain any ideas of going off the deep end, physically or otherwise.
Course, they may feel the niggle of something not being right in their daily scheme, one that is vaguely persistent but easily squashed with another movie, another book, another morning run, another sandwich, another drink, another shot, another shooting up, another beating, another brown out, another black out, another spree of giving linear time the finger.
It's hardly fair to complain about nonlinear narratives when you seem so desperate to avoid the concept yourself. Life is a mess of half remembered instances and disjointed narratives, stream of conscious not being very concerned for its very few spectators.
What good is a writing a novel portraying Life, if its main goal is to make sense? Give me a ride compromised by emotion, drugs, unreliable narrators spilling their guts to a psychedelic riddle that crosses consciousness and space-time continuum.
Give me unrelenting displays of cruelty and abuse and subsequent coping mechanisms whose effects are just as vicious as their causes, and sprinkle them with laugh out loud moments clouded by the memories of the aforementioned atrocities.
Give me recognition that the brain is an organ just as unwieldy and unreliable as the heart or the kidney, and thinking your way out of something is sometimes the worst possible decision you could ever make. Give me the paragon of masculinity breaking down into snotty sobs in front of an openly weeping crowd of fellow human beings, in a system that cannot possibly work until it does. Give me the revival of hope in mankind, embodied in the briefest touch between one masquerading as the dregs of society, and one unaware of their hopeless plight to a heartrending degree.
Give me miscommunication on a truly horrendous scale, conversers following their own narratives with minuscule attention paid to their conversees, many pairs of these circling in a room with no clear and singular "plot".
Give me an apocalyptic attempt at righting this miscommunication. Give me a Truth that will have its way with me that I didn't realize I desperately craved until I am lying on the floor, breathless and aching with tears flowing freely down my cheeks, stunned in the realization that I am not the only one.
Keep your "Hipster Lit Flow Chart". It has no place here. Aug 02, El rated it really liked it Shelves: society-went-boombig-effing-bookscuckoos20th-centurylit-latebooks-list. In Abraham Lincoln decided that the fourth Thursday of each November would be recognized nationally as Thanksgiving.
Today happens to be the fourth Thursday in November. Happy Thanksgiving. I would like to give thanks to the fact that I finished this mother-effing book today. It's now EST as I start to write this review. I finished reading approximately five hours ago. Since then I have polished off almost an entire bottle of Chardonnay.
It's taken me this long to a get a nice enough bu In Abraham Lincoln decided that the fourth Thursday of each November would be recognized nationally as Thanksgiving. It's taken me this long to a get a nice enough buzz on, and b have any desire to update my review to this book.
My desire to review this book is equal to the desire I had to read this book - both seem like a really good idea, but in the process of either I sort of feel like I'd probably be better off wrangling a squirrel with my bare hands. But, okay, to be fair, there were times while I read this that I really enjoyed it.
My wrists never actually enjoyed holding the book, but my mind was amused once in a while at the mental gymnastics which were required to get through some of the passages. Other times my mind told my eyeballs they were really effing dumb to keep looking at the page. Those were the times in which the book was set off to the side and wasn't picked up again for sometimes weeks at a time.
It sat next my bed for the most part. I hated this book during those times. It was there when I went to sleep at night and it was there when I woke up in the morning.
It might as well have had eyes because I felt it constantly looking at me. I think one morning it even handed me my glasses. Infinite Jest became a third roommate. One that wasn't even paying rent, but it gives okay head so I kept it around.
I read 37 other books in the time that I spent also reading Infinite Jest. Another GR friend read only 24 other books during her reading of this book. No, I'm not judging myself. Okay, maybe I am a little bit. Excuse me, I need another glass of wine. I know, I know. This whole review is completely unstable. Why rate a book so high if the review itself sounds so low? I never take almost four months to read a book that I love, so that fact alone must mean I really hated this, right?
Oh, if only it were that easy. I don't love Infinite Jest. I think a part of me hates it. Actually, a large part of me hates it. I hate that it took me almost four months to read it, and I hate that it consumed so much of my time and energy. I hate that I so very much wanted to know how it ended, preventing me from abandoning it entirely.
I hate that there were so many endnotes, and sometimes those footnotes went on for a really long time and may as well have been whole chapters in and of themselves. The different story lines? Hated them. I can't tell you how many times I swore at the book, how many times I swore at the memory of David Foster Wallace himself for writing such a book, how many times I argued with myself, "Summabitch, this is like postmodernist fiction - no, it's worse than postmodern literature I'm just waxing hyperbolic here.
But there were some really incredible aspects to Infinite Jest, and I would be wrong not to give some shout-outs to those things as well. The story lines that I hated? I also sort of loved them. There's really no good way of giving the story line any sort of true justice here.
There's a reason the book is over a thousand pages - you're crazy if you think I'm going to even try to sum it up here. Don't be lazy, read it yourself. Anyway, I loved the stories, which only makes me hate the book even more.
Hi, I'm a woman, get over it. Incidentally, at the same time I've been reading this I've also been reading some crazy modern French philosophy dudes, and secretly I've been making comparisons between the two books. Which is why when I reached this passage highly edited to hurry along my point for this purpose, bold fonts are mine for emphasis on page I sort of vomited a little in my mouth before screaming and passing out a bit On page To concoct something the gifted boy couldn't simply master and move on from to a new plateau.
In case you were wondering, the other book I am reading at this time is A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia by Deleuze and his buddy, Guattari.
That's pretty crazy. That requires another glass of wine to process. Seriously, Deleuze and Guattari are written all over this Wallace guy. I know very little about Wallace. I know he wrote books like Infinite Jest, had a rough life, died way too young at his own hand, and I haven't read anything else by him, though I Hard For A Man - Say Lou Lou - Lucid Dreaming (CD.
The point is I don't know how much he was into those crazy Frenchies, but I would say he had to have read them, studied them, or maybe, like myself, was a part of a really pretentious book club in which they spend almost five hours dissecting three chapters of A Thousand Plateaus at a time. The thought actually made me feel a little closer to Wallace. But then I remembered how angry I've been at Deleuze and Guattari as well over the past few months and decided they're all back on the bus.
The Bus, btw, is just a pretend bus inside my head where I imagine putting people that I don't like onto said bus and then eventually driving them all off a cliff. A really high cliff. At the same time, it's genius. Wallace was genius for writing this book, a non-traditional dystopia which, I might add, also sort of gets me all hot and bothered because I do like a well-written dystopia.
He was genius for making all these connections to things like Deleuze and Guattari, things that a lot of people don't really read; it made me wonder what other references he made that I'm not familiar with and therefore I missed completely. I was happy to at least catch that one. It seems this is the sort of book that people either love or hate - there's very little middle-ground on this one.
It seems people read this more than once, though for the life of me I can't imagine ever wanting to read it again. I'm glad I read it once, for sure. And when I say "glad" I mean it in the same way that I mean it when I say Album) "glad" my mom made me eat really nasty vegetables when I was a kid.
I didn't like them but they were good for me. That's sort of what Infinite Jest is. I'm just a healthier reader because I was able to stomach it. But it didn't change my life. I refuse to say that it did. It will, however, stick with me.
And there again is that stupid genius of Wallace. He wrote a big spanking book that manages to really stick with a reader. But, like I ask constantly, especially when it comes to Deleuze and Guattari - was it necessary?? Like I've been asleep for a really long time in this case, it's been since August 2nd when I started reading Infinite Jest and now I'm awake and holy crap, things have changed with the rest of the world. I would read Infinite Jest before going to bed at night, and then wake up suddenly only to realize I had been dreaming about reading Infinite Jest.
There was no break between putting the book down, turning off the light and falling asleep. It all just continued in my head. And it seems this Album) the kind of book that people remember where they were while they were reading this more than they can actually remember what it's about.
I remember where I was when I heard Kurt Cobain had died. I remember where I was in my life while I was reading Infinite Jest. The finer details of my life are actually a little blurry during this reading though because it consumes so much energy to read it that it sort of overshadows everything else.
So that was my Thanksgiving. I knew part of my plan for the day was to get totally trashed on wine and finish Infinite Jest, which is mostly why I didn't invite my brother over to celebrate the day with us. Sorry bro! Now I've been sitting here giving two big middle fingers to the copy of Infinite Jest beside me.
Eventually maybe we'll make up, but for now it's time for bed because, alas, I have to work in the morning and I have to sleep this Wallace-Jest-Chardonnay-buzz off. If you read all the way down to this sentence then you're awesome and you are probably worthy and capable of reading Infinite Jest on your own.
I wish you well. Tip: Read all of the endnotes. View all 38 comments. Mar 29, Tara rated it did not like it. I would gladly delete it, but it appears some people have engaged in fruitful back-and-forth in the comment thread. I let it stand for the sake of their discussion, but since every once in a while I wake up to an email informing me of how some stranger on the internet thinks I'm an asshole and as I'm also a person who can't stand the heat and would gladly get out of the kitchen if I Album)I'd like to add a few disclaimers.
This review was written by a young woman who never dreamed more than 2 or 3 people would read it. Hence, I was not attempting to be Northrop Frye. I was being silly. I entirely agree the review would be better if it attempted real, concrete criticism rather than aggressive shrugging.
To write that review, though, I would have to really care about Infinite Jest, and I just don't. God knows I've tried, but I don't. That doesn't mean I think DFW had nothing to say.
He certainly did, and I'm sympathetic to lots of it. But postmodernism is not my genre. I have no patience with it. Finally, this review was the product of an incarnate, imperfect person with background associations and moods trickling into their work. I had a chip on my shoulder when I wrote this and my AHWOSG review; you could say I was sneering at someone s in the review because I hadn't the guts to do so face-to-face of course, sneering is bad and one shouldn't do it on the internet or face-to-face.
As I wrote above, a good and meaningful review would be far more impartial, specific, and clear. But this isn't a good and meaningful review. It's a hasty sneer with perhaps some basis for its attitude but certainly not in the review as written, and the author would gladly delete it save for the fact that it hosts a comment thread other people find productive.
So enjoy discussing the works of DFW with my blessing, but if you are awaiting a response from me on the merits of the book or to further explode in fireworks of snark, I'm afraid you'll be waiting in vain.
The thread stays; please, be polite to one another. Even if snark has some ground in the truth, it only encourages snark in others, and no one feels good or changes their mind when they feel attacked. It's neither a work of genius, nor is it insightful. There are serious things wrong with this book. I think the bigger problem here is why anyone, anywhere, thinks this is brilliant.
Somehow the advent of smarmy advertisement and sterile, banal corporate living over the past one hundred and fifty years has invaded our literature, and we think it's wonderful and genius and metaphorical Because it is self-referential, because it's mocking us on a deep level? I thought good literature was something people could access or at least should be able tothat ideas should be understandable, and should have real content. As many a wiser human being has pointed out, if it's not even mildly coherent, it's probably bogus.
Critics rave about this novel for many reasons, one of which I suppose is so they don't have to talk about the concrete and tremendous problems we are actually facing God forbid literature should be anything more than a ridiculous competition between whose work is the most ground-breaking and incoherent. It shouldn't be a surprise, I guess, but it's depressing anyway. It was only a matter of time before our publishing companies started thinking something like this was a good idea.
View all 60 comments. And he is lying there on your couch, slowly but steadily draining your liquor cabinet, and droning on and on, and oh!
And but then, right at that moment, out of the blue, in the middle of his sentence, that conversationalist from hell glances at his watch, mumbles something about it being already h or some such, gets up, grabs his coat and leaves. And so but so you realise you really need a fucking shower. Now in all earnestness, Infinite Jest is a pretty beefy beast. The material, the style, the composition are a challenge to the reader as well.
It is quite clear that David Foster Wallace is insanely talented and capable of pulling out all the stops literary-wise: a variety of styles and speech patterns and dialects, unearthly situations, deeply layered characters, several-pages-long sentences that still manage to make sense and remain grammatically sound, a blend of casual phrasing and hyper-scholarly pedantic jargon and neologisms, bits and bobs of French in fact, French-sounding but laced with blunders and mostly borderline gibberishsudden left turns from hilarious to grotesque to horrifying, and the list goes on.
On the other hand, Infinite Jest is in toto and quite literally a puzzling novel — a giant 1, piece jigsaw with missing bits. It seems as if DWF had been writing this monster haphazardly, throwing one scene after the next on paper, all over the map, introducing one character after another, without much consideration for any form of consistency or reason or storytelling technique or quite knowing what he was doing.
As if he had been throwing stuff against the wall to see what would stick, and in the end, just left everything in allegedly, he removed some pages from the initial manuscript before publication, but still! As a result, the book is rhapsodic, bloated, and seems to display a disjointed and sometimes irritating and gratuitous series of vignettes, anecdotes, dreams, hallucinations, esoteric digressions, silly acronyms and endnotes, winks to Homer and Shakespeare and Dostoyevsky and Joyce and Nabokov and Pynchon and Bazin and Deleuze and Scorsese and Lynch.
The novel ends in medias resas abruptly and randomly as it started. So, for the most part, the readers of this sprawling and baroque novel are expected to hone their understanding and piece all this material together into something that might make some sense. But in the end, and as a result of the sheer length and complicated, disorderly structure, they might find that, although their patience has been tried to the nth degree, there is still a sort of power of accretion which, for want of producing a proper story, does indeed paint the picture of a Album) epoch: our time.
Infinite Jest is an insane form of speculative fiction. The story takes place in some trippy dystopian alternate reality, where North America has become one single country, governed by a halfwitted show-business-celebrity president rings a bell?
Most characters in Infinite Jest seem utterly miserable, suicidal, damaged, depressed, obsessed, lonely, lost. The book is also, in a way, an existential study about the struggle of being human in our postmodern reality. But in my view, at the core, Infinite Jest is a book about addiction and its devastating effects. That is addiction in all imaginable forms and shapes: drugs, alcohol, sex, success, mindless entertainment, so on. Incidentally, that movie is titled Infinite Jest.
In a way, Infinite Jest the movie within the novel illustrates the most extreme version of addiction. Infinite Hard For A Man - Say Lou Lou - Lucid Dreaming (CD the bookon the other hand, is a stark satire of a society that has become the slave of cheap and mind-numbing, soul-destroying pleasures, force-fed to everyone by a capitalist system that pretends to bring happiness to humankind but is in actuality driven to endless consumerism only.
And so, Infinite Jest is ultimately a book about literature as a form of art and as an industry. In short, Infinite Jest the novel is the direct opposite of Infinite Jest the movie within the novel. NB: I want to extend a big thank you to the lovely Michelle Curie, I have read this book along with, for spurring me throughout! Please, go check out her review. View all 33 comments.
I have written a more substantial but no more real review than the little blurb that used to sit here. The original blurb written on the day I heard DFW died follows this lengthy and self-indulgent exercise. Within a year of each other two works of entertainment were released that have been pretty darn influential to me.
One is this book, and the other was Jawbreaker's album Dear You. Jawbreaker's album was a momento I have written a more substantial but no more real review than the little blurb that used to sit here.
Jawbreaker's album was a momentous failure. It alienated just about everyone who had any expectations for the band. Their penultimate album, 24 Hour Revenge Therapy had been vehemently anti-corporate.
They were producing great music and doing it on their own terms. Accusations of sell-out flew, and people began looking at the band with the beady little suspicious eyes that the punk world loves peering at the world through. Rumors started flying that in no time the band would be signed to DGC the label that Nirvana was on, that this was the first step to their own rockstardom, and of course the chorus of sell-out grew louder.
One defender of the band, Ben Weasel who still hasn't been excommunicated from Maximum RocknRoll for the heretical charges of allowing a song of his to appear on a major label produced soundtrack stood by the band and wrote in his column that he'd eat his hat if Jawbreaker signed to a major label. He ended up eating the hat. The band signed to DGC and released their most polished album. The album was a spectacular flop.
The punk world turned their collective back on the band and the mainstream world didn't give a shit. It didn't help that the video and single the band released was for one of the two weakest songs on the album. The band ended up succumbing lackluster sales, criticism and infighting.
Eventually one member of the band spat gum at another in the middle of an argument and that spat gum ended the band I'm only adding this fact to show the evils of gum. Bad Blake! I'm slowly going somewhere with all of this. If Jawbreaker had released this song instead of "Fireman" I think they would have been huge. The reason for all of this preamble is to share these couple of lines that come towards the end of "Save Your Generation": You have to learn to learn from your mistakes.
You can afford to lose a little face. The things you break, some can't be replaced. A simple rule: every day be sure you wake. One of the things DFW liked to point out in interviews is that we are bombarded with a massive amount of information and part of our goal is to make sense of all that information. The problem isn't how to absorb all of the information, because that is an impossible feat, it's how to choose what information we choose to filter in and out of our consciousness and what we choose to do with that information.
I'm not talking about what kind of use value we can take from the information bombarding us, what the pragmatic value of the information is. That is an easy way to solve the problem, but it's not necessarily an option for everyone. It also leads to an alienation and objectification of the entire world. Everything is turned into a tool. This is a fine way to live, many people do it. Some people can't do this though, people who see the world in this way would never like this book, but that's ok because they probably will one day own really nice things.
Another way out of the problem is to bombard oneself with something so endlessly diverting that no other information is necessary. Both solutions are putting tremendous limits on the uptake of information, and either deliberately or unconsciously limiting the world around us into super-easily manageable nuggets. At the other extreme is to be affected by everything and be so overwhelmed by the world that everything becomes white noise.
Unfiltered receptions. Instead there has to be some kind of middle ground. And one could add, the middle ground needs to be made with awareness.
One needs to remind oneself to wake up everyday. An easier book could be read in the way that the boys at the tennis academy squeeze the tennis balls constantly. There is no thought to the exercise. They are developing exaggerated muscles but it is through a mindlessness and it is a very localized improvement. One of my favorite passages of which there are many is the second person ok, I could be wrong about this, maybe it's not in the second person, my memory of it is, but my memory is also very fallible description of what it takes to succeed at tennis.
The pain and repetition involved. The filtering out of everything aside from the focus at succeeding. Someone in this position reduces the world to a very manageable number of bytes a day, the success at tennis bytes. Just like the obsessive pothead reduces the world to a very manageable, things I need to do to smoke a shit ton of pot this weekend bytes.
Just like the person watching The Entertainment reduces everything to the this is fucking entertaining whatever It is bytes. This book is massive and overwhelming. It's a total onslaught of information. And the information is presented in a jarring manner. There is the non-sequential order of the narrative, there is the long sentences, the difficult language and of course the endnotes. A lot is put in front of the reader, there are a lot of characters to keep track of, thinking about when a scene is taking place in relation to other scenes in the books and this is made even more difficult by the use of corporate names to designate years.
It's information overload. And then the information the reader is presented with is hammered with the details DFW chooses to give. As expansive as the novel is it is also incredibly claustrophobic at times in it's interiority. This novel isn't for everyone. I'd never recommend it to someone. I think it takes a particular type of person to enjoy this book, and I think that this type of person is defined by how they experience the world and by what goes on in their head.
Most importantly by what happens inside a person's head. I'm probably just projecting here, and I know that there are other types of people than myself that love this book too, but I don't think it's necessarily a happy and healthy person who is the type that this book is written for.
The camshaft timing gear assembly contained advance and retard oil passages, as well as a detent oil passage to make intermediate locking possible. Furthermore, a thin cam timing oil control valve assembly was installed on the front surface side of the timing chain cover to make the variable valve timing mechanism more compact. The cam timing oil control valve assembly operated according to signals from the ECM, controlling the position of the spool valve and supplying engine oil to the advance hydraulic chamber or retard hydraulic chamber of the camshaft timing gear assembly.
To alter cam timing, the spool valve would be activated by the cam timing oil control valve assembly via a signal from the ECM and move to either the right to advance timing or the left to retard timing.
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