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 last year after it was far more effective at making me feel the cultural emptiness that inhabits and surrounds all of the characters. I needed a time out.
I suppose that a year is enough of a time out. I have also skimmed the end of The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet and am looking for my next book. Thus, the reasoning behind dragging Infinite Jest upstairs. Anthony Powell‘s books — A Dance to the Music of Time — are in the running as serious candidates. Not sure about Don DeLillo — White Noise is on my Kindle. I rather think that now I’ll go with Salman Rushdie‘s Midnight’s Children.
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