This season, on the downhill slide from late winter into early spring, I have chosen to delve into a dense novel that has been called both "a daunting task" as well as "one of the best English language novels since 1923". Not sure which novel marks the 1923 milestone. It was, indeed, a great year for literature.
Infinite Jest is the magnum opus of the late, tragically brilliant writer, David Foster Wallace. It is a thick read, one thousand seventy nine pages of small print, which begins with the group vetting of young tennis prodigy, Hal Incandenza. Thus far, the stream of consciousness, highly descriptive and dense prose has kept me in the bathtub each night for an hour. I'm hooked, but the bait is proving to be a mighty wad to swallow.
Why am I reading a Great American Novel here in Hungary when I should be reading the works of local literary luminaries such as Krúdy Gyula, Móricz Zsigmond, or Molnár Ferenc? Indeed, Mólnar's A Pál Utcai Fiúk (The Paul Street Boys) is a must read for book lovers anywhere, as it is often touted as the most famous Hungarian Novel in the world. I'll get to it.
Infinite Jest has been on my mind since the author committed suicide in 2008. Since I ordered it three weeks ago, it has been particularly heavy in my heart, for reasons unknown. I just have to go with the jones. The heart wants what it wants.
David Foster Wallace, although not Hungarian, seemed to possess a bit of the Magyar sensibility. Serious, intellectual, sincere, depressed, and free of bullshit, he may have fit right into this culture and may have admired its fellow, suicidal literary heroes (Atilla Josef, I'm thinking of you and your train tracks).
Ah, David, "this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you".
Play by play reviews of this novel will be appearing on this blog. I will attempt to tie what unfolds to life here in Budapest. A dystopian novel with themes that range from addiction, terrorism, separatism and tennis should give me plenty of latitude. Stay tuned, my pretties. x
