A bunch of literate young bloggers are reading David Foster Wallace's magnum opus, Infinite Jest, and blogging about it on A Supposedly Fun Blog. There's a particular frisson to diving into really massive novel, and it's fun to watch a bunch of smart bloggers chattering up their courage, as though this novel, like the addictions it chronicles, can only be confronted with a support group.
(A review of Wallace's book, written when I was young and foolish, is here.)
To me the sloppiness of his errors is of a piece with the frantic tone of the book, which I suspect was also the tone of Wallace’s depression. I bet many people on this thread can identify with the plight of a very smart, fast-learning guy, driven from a very young age, for whom the ideal of intellectual curiosity becomes a consumptive craving. You end up with vertigo in the face of the infinity of things you could learn, facts you could still get right or wrong, the impossibility of ever deciding what’s important. Of course the book’s full of holes. It’s trying to be infinite, and there’s not much time.