white pebble

I am in here.

I dragged up my copy of Infinite Jest last night before going to bed. I suppose that I thought I would make some kind of headway into it at last, after more than a year of ignoring the poor thing. Now it sits on the radiator, staring at me. I left off reading the book […]

David Foster Wallace‘s writing is like a firework, always fading away. A.S. Byatt‘s writing has life in it. It is solid, and will happily last and live as long as is possible for a book to live. DFW’s Infinite Jest frightens me with the possibility always of its frivolity, its center of nothingness, despair, entertainment […]

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