Monday, 15 November 2010

I began Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace in the Summer (June or July) and I had to put it back down not only because it is such a difficult book, but that I had other things to read, I still do, but I feel like I should. I'd only read 24 pages, though of the massive 981 of the Abacus 2009 edition I have, with the print tiny and pages thin like a bible.

The thing is I was talking to someone in work today about myself and my friends who have been, in some way, influenced by David Foster Wallace, which began with one friend who was already a fan and each of us now reference him as an influence, bringing about us as these new writers using Foster Wallace as some precursor to our own writing.

But the thing is that David Foster Wallace died in 2008. He was only 46. It was tragic, and such a damn shame. Here's us with our new writing styles, having Foster Wallace to thank for some of it, and the poor guy is dead.

He writes with this formal/informal postmodern technique, which, emerging from that, is this comedic voice so distanced from anything it can say anything - I think it;s better than the traditional god-distanced narrative, becoming this god-like voice that is sprayed out everywhere and sounds so funny (though you do have to pay attention, or else it's gone).

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