Here’s the thing: I don’t doubt that Wallace is a genius. And it’s not that I believe there’s no value in self-indulgent works by men. It’s just that I’m not very interested in them. These men seem to think I’m saying the thing they love is bad, when really I’m just saying I don’t care about the thing they love.
Men Recommend David Foster Wallace to Me by Deirdre Coyle
I read Infinite Jest maybe ten years ago. It was full of ten-cent words that were clearly there to make the "cultured" critics masturbate furiously in response, a total slog to get through, and I found myself wishing I had picked up anything else to read instead. But the concept was interesting, so of course I finished it :/
You won't be able to pay me to read the rest of his narcissistic claptrap. Kudos to Coyle for managing to keep the bile down long enough to persevere.
Still blankly staring at the 619-word outline on my May the 4th fic. Come ooooonnnnnn, self, get it together and get it done.