I’ve taken a blind plunge into dark waters, my friends. This infinite summer is kicking my ass. I’m not talking about the heat (although the sun seems to be squeezing every last drop of moisture out of my body as I write this). I’m talking about the literary challenge that is part mind-altering torture, and part social suicide. Infinite Summer is a book club of sorts, where the participants agree to read just one book over the three months of summer: David Foster Wallace’s intimidating tome, Infinite Jest. Weighing in at just a little over 1000 pages, the novel is daunting in both physical size and in narrative scope.

At nearly 400 pages in, I can see why DFW’s opus is critically lauded. His ability to weave in and out of story lines, follow tangents to their bitter ends, and juggle a cast of hundreds of characters is enough to make me want to stop writing this very instant (I’ll get to this in a sec). And yet he writes with such confidence you can’t help but trust him. Wallace has built himself a post WW dystopian stage for his actors to live and die on, in the style of the best sci-fi writers. He introduces such ridiculous premises (his subsidized calendar, for example) with a matter-of-fact-ness that shoves the reader’s incredulousness off of a high precipice. I won’t go into further detail about the book itself, thats Infinite Summer (#infsum) territory (I’m no literary critic. Shit, I’m hardly even an acceptable music critic). What I want to discuss is some of the difficulties I’ve encountered in this cerebral excursion.

First off, I love the idea behind this. The brains behind InfSum wanted to build a framework for people to share an experience (which Infinite Jest certainly is). But a book (especially of this length) isn’t like a movie or a LP. It isn’t a single helping of work for everyone to ingest at the same pace on on the same level. IJ is a dense work of metaphor and cultural criticism, and though there is a schedule of completion in place, not everyone (me included) will stick to it. Some people are expected to drop out, others will most certainly fall behind/read ahead. This results in a spoiler minefield for anyone who wishes to engage in discussion. While the moderators of InfSum has anticipated this, and instituted a compartmentalized forum (spoiler/spoiler-free), this will not prevent people from inadvertently leaking info in the excitement of the moment (and there are most definitely many, many exciting moments). This is most easily seen in the #infsum twitter feed. I know I’ve let a few points of interest slip into my tweets ahead of schedule (I’m one of the read-aheaders, not bragging or anything). I just hope I haven’t spoiled anything to the other readers, which bring me to my next point.

I don’t know how many people are participating in Infinite Summer, but there are too many. There is a reason that book clubs are held in peoples living room and discussed at reasonable volumes. But this is the equivalent of giving  one hundred thousand people bullhorns and ushering them into Times Square (or any -Square, really). A trip to the InfSum forums is a nerve-wracking tip-top through uncombed territory (remember that spoiler/landmine metaphor?). I have so many questions I leave up in the air, but I trust that DFW will address them eventually. And I feel no need to publish my insights about the plot—assuming that I have exclusive knowledge of the novel—so what do I need the forums for? I have yet to meet any one person, online or off-, that is reading IJ right now, and so my wish for one-on-one real-time discussion has yet to be granted by the book-nerd fairy. A copy of IJ is hard to find anywhere at the moment, so I can’t recruit one of my friends either.

So I still have the blog. But that introduces a whole different set of issues. I’ve already established that I’m no literary critic (remember that?), but the people who contribute to the blog are, or at least some of them. They are always full of insightful commentary, and personal anecdotes which are almost as discouraging to a budding English major (such as myself, but keep that under your hat) as IJ itself. Take Andrew Womack’s recent entry. He goes into detail about his experiences living in the shadow of a tennis pro. Womack then references DFW’s essay(s?) on tennis and I think, great like my reading load isn’t heavy enough. Every blog post is like a new homework assignment, piling up further works that will add to my appreciation of IJ. I already appreciate it enough, guys and gals. I don’t need to know every nook and cranny (I’ll save that for my 3rd and 4th readings). I find it extremely discouraging that I lack the mathematical background to get the subtle humor of the algorithms used in Eschaton. And the recaps only serve to remind me that I didn’t read close enough. I specifically recall reading in the week 2 summary:

“Pg 87: A herd of feral hamsters rampages in the Great Concavity (which used to be Vermont, and is now owned by Canada)”

And I thought, “Now how in the hell did I miss that?” So all these post convince me that not only do I lack the prerequisite knowledge of DFW’s narrative non-fiction and high-level quasi-mathematical philosophical Master thesis, but I lack the basic reading skills to pay attention to the words that are right in front of my eyes.

Reading in public adds a whole new dimension of challenges. IJ has a notorious reputation as a dense, intellective novel (read Hamlet first?! really?!!?!). And I’m just narcissistic enough to imagine that everyone who happens to glance in my direction and see this giant green and blue brick in my lap silently judges me. As if I was brest-feeding, “why don’t you do that in the privacy of your home?” the voices in my head would ask.

As you have most certainly already figured out, I’m just spit-balling excuses. I’m looking for a reason to find something else to read. I have that whole pile of books on my desk, just begging for attention. So why don’t I just take a break? The answer is two-fold. Firstly, poppa didn’t raise no quitter. Secondly, and fellow readers of IJ can attest at this point in the journey, I actually care. Despite the daunting amount of pages left, the crick in my spine from carrying the extra weight, and the self-conscious voices in my head, I actually care about these characters. Orin, Joelle, Pemulis, Gately, Poor Tony, Hal (especially). These are fully-formed people that live and breath in-between the lines. I’m even looking forward to the footnotes now; the action of flipping to the back is burned into the muscles of my right arm. So I can’t quit, even if I wanted to (honestly, I don’t). I need to know what happens to these people (I already know it can’t be good). So I soldier on with a cautious determination. I willingly sacrifice my Friday (and some Saturday) nights to reaching the next mile marker. And most importantly, I Turn Over my time and emotions to Wallace, One Day At A Time.

I’d like to insert a well-thought-out and insightful conclusion here. One that wraps up and summarizes my points in a fulfilling flourish. But I’d rather leave that to the professionals. Besides, IJ is by my side as I write this, and its undisturbed presence can not longer be ignored. I need to know how Gately’s White Flag meeting ends.

And to David Foster Wallace: Fuck You for making me feel feelings. You owe me a summer.