For the last three months I have been reading (née savouring) David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, a digressive, hefty, brainy, gorgeous slab of a book. This post post-modern book, published in 1996, is ostensibly about Quebec terrorists in search of a film by a dead film-maker that will help them mount an attack on USA.
The book has such dense passages on tennis, drug abuse, paedophilia, depression, mathematics, philosophy coupled with Wallace’s savage wit that I am suffering from withdrawal syndrome. One neophrase that struck with me throughout the book is “giving me howling fantods”, which means an intense feeling of
