Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

It started well. The complexity of the entire work appeared in one initial rush, promising that human truths would be articulated through words and layered references I would never choose myself, but that would suddenly appear to be the only things anyone could possibly chose to explain a certain concept. How could Harold Bloom have failed to appreciate this? But after the first couple hundred pages, I understood. The glow disappeared. The complexity resolved itself into two parts. There were the way-too-autobiographical-sounding, painfully detailed substance abuse/violence sections (the violence seeming less autobiographical than the substance abuse, but both so difficult to read that I found myself twisting my legs together more and more tightly on the subway in response to a visceral sense of violation) and the look-at-how-complete-a-world-I-can-create-and-be-impressed sections (Eschaton). The language lost its glamour as well. If I notice an author use a specific word, it is usually for one of three reasons: 1) it is a beautiful, ideal word for that particular situation, often adding value to the sentence because the root makes it punny or just being rare and pretty and appropriate, 2) it is a word I really do not recognize, in which case I need to ascertain whether it’s because of my own ignorance or because it was invented by the author, or 3) it’s an unusual word that the author is attempting to squeeze in somewhere where it doesn’t necessarily belong, but they want to use it just because they like the sound or they think it’s impressive. After multiple noticeable uses, “halcyon” went from a Category 1 to a Category 3. By the entirely unsatisfactory ending, I no longer enjoyed the style (at all), but I do feel as though I understand substance addiction and recovery a lot more than I probably actually do.