But there’s something to be said about narrative flow–illusory, magical world-creating that gets shattered by obsessive reader fits and referential (non)starts.

Probably this is just me publicly wrestling with my own IJ history…but this time I’ve decided against counting all of the stars in favor of seeing the whole sky.

I’m a former English major and current English teacher who actually considers it the job of teachers to open students up to the idea of reading, rather than instructing students to pick up on Hamlet allusions or placing everything they read in the context of the American canon. That stuff is nice, and fun, and even pretty important, but my god people, just read stuff you like to read! I hate the toxic culture of high literacy that values being seen lugging a large book around an airport more than reading said large book. Read because you like to read. Read something that challenges you. If you don’t like it, or it’s too boring, or pretentious, or difficult, stop reading, man.

I’m here because I have tried several times and never succeeded in reading DFW’s fiction. I love his non-fiction, although he can be a little precious, mean-spirited, and performatively doe-eyed for my tastes. But whatever. His writing has a passion and hysteria that is normally only associated with children, a quality that is both the best and worst thing about DFW as a writer. A quality that DFW, I think, was very aware of and was a key to how he marketed himself.

Obviously, IJ made the splash it did and spawned projects like Infinite Summer because it inspires folks, like many of the commenters here. I’ve decided to give DFW the benefit of the doubt and give it a go.

I’m loving this book.