Book Beginnings: Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace

Book Beginnings on Friday is hosted by Rose City Reader. Bloggers, especially those who read incessantly and obsessively like I do, post the first sentence (or so) of the book they’re reading. This morning, I spent the half-hour I get before I show up at the office (really, a tiny desk in the corner of my room that looks out into nothing distracting) reading Infinite Jest, a book I’m about a third of the way through. It’s not a book for everyone, but if you’re a fan of Thomas Pynchon and James Joyce, it is worth your time.

I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies. My posture is consciously congruent to the shape of my hard chair. This is a cold room in University Administration, wood-walled, Remington-hung, double-windowed against the November heat, insulated from Administrative sounds by the reception area outside, at which Uncle Charles, Mr. deLint and I were lately received.

Alright, back to writing, though I will be here on and off all day with more features, suggestions, notes, and the detritus that washes away when I’m involved in a project.

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