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| Wallace, moments before the riots. |
Recently, a woman ran up to me bursting with pride and joy. She had just received the two prosthetic eyes she scored on e-bay for less than the price of a yearly subscription to Mojo Magazine.
“Two for the price of one,” she beamed holding out the orbs for me to see.
“What will you do with your two new eyes?” I asked kinda grossed out.
“Oh, that’s easy,” she cooed. “I’m going to read infinite Jest again!” She then dashed off madly directly into the path of a school bus which narrowly avoided her by swerving violently, striking a man on the sidewalk, pinning him against the wall of Dongo’s Dry Cleaner’s, the impact popping his eyes out.
I first read I.J. sometime in 1994 1995 after someone bought it for me as a means of corporal punishment; a means for me to atone for all sins brazenly committed since the glorious day of my birth, October 1st, 1968. It was a dry birth, if I remember correctly, not a lot of blood and mucking around. I came out holding six serpents and a travel mug of coffee, while smoking twelve cigarettes. There was dust, ashes, and a small fire way off in the distance - a typical smoky autumn birth.
I love the ominous girth of I.J. It could be used to kill a person, crush a spine, or break easily through a pane of plate glass. And that was just the physical tangibility of the tome. The words contained were heavier. But I read it. I have to admit that this was not Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. This was not a one-hitter. Being diagnosed with I.J. was like living through a nasty bout of encephalitis for a few months. The book crippled me temporarily, hampering my daily routine. I grew muscles where I didn’t have muscles before. Mushrooms sprouted from dank corners. The plot confused. It depressed me. It made me laugh. Yet for months there was no light at the end of the tunnel. But it wasn’t terminal after all. Like Gloria Gaynor, I survived indeed. Then Wallace hung himself from the rafters in his kitchen. But don’t fret, dear reader, as it was a load-bearing rafter.
The news of his death was akin to a kick in the throat. So, I read it again. I.J. as a toast to Wallace. I was going to sing Danny Boy at his funeral and say the Lord’s Prayer, but I had nothing decent to say and nothing decent to wear. Reading through I.J. again was like a mild reoccurrence of encephalitis. Naturally with Wallace, now safely underground, I.J. read like an exquisitely penned, if not a tad self-indulgent, suicide note. Jesus H Christ, my copy, scoffed and tattered from being lugged around a second time, can still be used to kill a person, crush a spine, or break easily through a pane of plate glass. It now leans against other books by notoriously dead authors. H.S.T, Hemmingway, Wilde, Vonnegut, and Johnny Thunders.
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