I’m a glutton for punishment. Last spring I read Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. It was slow going but ultimately very satisfying.
Now I’m reading Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace. I hauled it to England, through Wales and Scotland, and back to the States, and still I’m only half-done. I’ve stopped twice to read other books (Dead Babies by Martin Amis and The Ghost Writer by Philip Roth). My pace is agonizingly slow because of Wallace’s writing, his inclusion of every great and minor detail.
This is one of the reasons to read something like this, to marvel at the range of the writer, but you have to commit to the long haul. You have to flip dutifully to the back pages and read the end notes. You have to carve out some brain space for all the characters and their relationships.
Here’s the question though: Pynchon’s new book Against the Day arrives in eleven days: Will I be ready to tackle another 1000-page behemoth so soon? Probably not. I’ll probably set the new one on the shelf next to Mason & Dixon, which has been on the shelf, unread, for five years. I’ve moved with it four times (yes, four times in five years), and still it sits stands there taunting me with its size.
At least it’s hardcover and will withstand the abuse of being carried around for several months when I finally get to it. My Pynchon paperbacks and Infinite Jest have taken serious beatings.
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