The Illustrated Encyclopedia of an Imaginary Universe

Last year, I got addicted to reading the Personals section of the city’s weekly alternative newspaper. I didn’t read the stuff about so-and-so who enjoys camping on weekends, cooking Italian dinners, and watching movies, seeking like-minded individual for friendship, possibly more. I went to the tiny section in the back where people would place advertisements as vague as any horoscope: ‘You, red Mustang leaving parking lot of AM/PM, me, black Jeep with no top. We waved and smiled. Wanting to see you again.’

A bit sick, I know, but I found them to be somewhat interesting. They were tiny little novels lacking the blatant distinction and carefully shrink-wrapped conclusions that most books are built upon. The characters were whoever you wanted them to be, the scene however you imagined it, and the ending was almost embarrassingly open-ended. Each was a capsule of history, initiative, and impetuous notions that fireballed into a completely unfathomable infinity where you sudenly were teh master of their destinies and in your head all was fated, played out, and forgotten within a span of a minute.

I found the little three- to five-lined paragraphs to be charming as well as sad. Who really reads these things? They’re tucked away like a ghastly prom tuxedo from 1974, too valuable to be thrown away, but too gaudy to wear to church on Sunday. An equal mixture of embarrassment and longing, these little adverts encapsulated something that was like ambrosia for the muse. How could the girl who saw this guy at a concert with whom she made significant and heart-racing eye contact expect him to read this tiny little alleyway of anonymous overtures? I found the whole concept so ridiculous that after reading them once, jokingly, I later returned to them. I couldn’t resist. I was hooked. I found solace in the behavior by comparing it with Garp’s penchant for reading the phone book. A strange hobby, indeed, but satisfying.

I don’t read them anymore. In fact, this is the first I’ve thought about them in quite awhile. I’ve found a new, somewhat similar pasttime. Amazon, the online bookseller, has a place for people to place their comments are reviews about the books they’ve read. Now, it isn’t interesting to read the reviews of the latest Judith Krantz or Stephen King offering. However, if you dig deep into the strange and so-called off-the-beaten-path strains of fiction, you can find the most curious little diatribes and commentary from people who range in the ages from one-foot-out-of-the-crib to one-foot-in-the-grave (and yes, I noticed all the hyphens—I felt I was way below my hyphen-usage-quota).

For example, when looking at the reviews and commentary for Wallace’s Infinite Jest, I found such gems as: ‘What can I say? This literary monstrosity is like Shakespearian dialog for Mensa members. I pride myself on being an intelegent well read person and I will happily agree David Foster Wallace is a genius, however, the man should write technical books for NASA or books on quantum physics,’ as quoted verbatim from reaper@inetarena.com from Portland.

And on and on he goes on his wild ride of poor grammar, improper capitalization, and ruthless misspellings. Perhaps I’m a little anal, maybe I’m a bit unforgiving. But I think that if you’re going to try to read what is known as a ‘difficult’ novel (although I’ve not personally read Infinite Jest, I’ve been told that it isn’t for the faint-of-heart) you should have the basics of advanced reading down. Don’t try to read Joyce or Pynchon, or even Ellison and Kafka, if you don’t have the basic skills of a college-level education unless you’re willing to put forth the extra effort to look up the words you don’t understand and research the references that fly over your head. Once again people are getting their feelings hurt for their own poor educational backgrounds and are faced with the undeniable truths that not only are people nto created equally, books are also not created equally. Just because you can read the latest John Grisham novel or because you’ve got a spiffy collection of Chicken Soup for the Whatever books doesn’t mean you can also swallow Rand, Pynchon, or Vonnegut.

I think the only reason why I’m actually considering trying to read Infinite Jest is because of it’s title. I can’t seem to get much of a plot synopsis beyond a vague mention of tennis clubs and halfway houses. What little descriptives I have found sound only vaguely interesting at best. What I’ll probably do is sit down next week and read the first dozen pages or so and see how I feel about it.