Infinite copies of Infinite Jest

I found another copy of David Foster Wallace’s opus on the street the other day. Chelsea asked me if I was going to read it this time.

I’ve actually tried to get through it more than once. I had an easier time with Ulysses, although I didn’t finish that either.

Why pick up a book off the street? One in which I have no intention of reading. At least not until I have settled into retirement (what’s that?!). To rescue it from the elements? To rescue it from someone that will only use it as a doorstop?

I guess I just have difficulty walking past what I am told is a work of uncompromised genius written by a genius that was uncompromising. Whether I take it home or take it to Book Thug Nation to trade for a copy of something by David Sedaris is my business.

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