In Quest of Infinite Jest: A Non-Book Review (A Post-modern Post)

David Foster Wallace’s 1996 novel Infinite Jest is a literary/cultural icon, a sprawling phantasmagoric landmark of modern – or should I say post-modern or post-post-modern – fiction. Wherever writers write about writing, Infinite Jest and its author are mentioned so often it’s like a tic. While drafting this blog post, I had the radio on, with an author interview, and she cited Infinite Jest. As did Maureen Dowd in a column I read just an hour later.

Sadly, Wallace, after achieving such acclaim, in 2008, committed suicide. But perhaps that was what really turbocharged his literary reputation — as in Van Gogh’s case, a great career move.

Anyway, feeling bludgeoned by ubiquitous obeisances to this book, I finally say to myself: OK, OK, I should read it!

Of course, I could go to a bookstore or library or Amazon. But several local libraries run fantastic used book sales, of which I’m a devotee. For just a buck or two, I find lots of books I can sell (mainly on ancient history); for gifts; and of course to read. So I started to look out for Infinite Jest.

Several years, and quite a few sales later, no luck. It began to seem bizarre. One of the most mooned about books of modern times – you’d imagine some copies were sold, to turn up in used book sales. But the more I failed to find it, the more determined I became. And it’s not some slim little volume that might be overlooked, but a 1,000+ page behemoth you could hardly miss.

The most recent sale had table after table of fat novels, all those Pattersons and Koontzes and Picoults, etc., at which normally I turn up my nose. But this sea of dreck I now set about searching, for just one, a needle in a haystack, a holy grail,

 almost maniacally, like Ahab obsessed with his white whale, spurring myself on: “This time I shall not be denied.” Like it had to be there, had to be, if only I looked hard enough. But yet again my quest met with defeat. I found no Infinite Jest. Not even A Little Jest. No Jest whatsoever.

So I cannot give you my usual snarky book review. Perhaps Infinite Jest doesn’t, after all, really exist. Maybe that itself is the infinite jest.