Bradley’s Reviews > Infinite Jest > Status Update

Tennis, et al., is a fook in t'boom. I almost feel as if I'm being tempered in the almost absolute boredom of serve and lob. I'm waiting, with baited breath, before I get to the druggies.

I can't overstate the sheer comic/terror of the Wheelchair Assassins in this scene, nor can I be more amazed at the idea that DFW condones the literary egress of the soul by either pea soup or broom handles. What can I say? Canucks are EVIL.

And now, the continuing adventures of Sir Osis of the Liver and Miss Diagnosis.

I had to join RA: Reader's Anonymous. Reading this book has shown me that I have a reading problem. Literary characters are telling me that I belong here, that I need to keep coming, and that humiliation is good for my soul. The longer I keep reading, the more I see their point.

Between a hypertrophied arm or thinking about ending your map, I was seriously happy to read more about map-ending until the Eschaton arrived. What a glorious thing that game was.

Tennis is Dystopian Literature. Just saying.

Are you kidding? In what world is this not science-fiction? It already reads like a love child between Brunner's Stand on Zanzibar, Dick's Valis, and J G Ballard's stories of physical alienation. I'm not complaining, per se., but I am reclaiming the author for our own. I mean, seriously? It's brilliant, but it's borrowing scene-themes left and right. I love it. Too bad we never nominated this for a Hugo.