Monday, March 1, 2010 (or Year 16 of the Age of Berlusconi), at 19.13 I finished reading Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace. And today I write as if no one listened. What is the biggest dance that one can tell whether you're composing the opera-Basic-Che-L'Umanità -awaited or you may end Bartezzaghi during the daily production of faeces. So, at least, I write for me. To give me a pat on the back before resuming the cycle of 20 flessioni/pausa/30 flexion / pause / 40 flex / fainting. If there is a terrible thing to write about is the thought that what you write is 'trivial', which falls in the too long list of productions onanist in which the author speaks beautifully of their dicks and want to do, consciously or unconsciously, so 'cute', sinking it the poor man who reads in the quicksand of boredom (you know those classic images of Tg when there is an environmental disaster like an oil tanker stuck off the coast and a few are seen the birds that flap their wings tarred and / or impetroliate and it seems the motion of one crying out in anguish "Levatemi this stuff off, fuck, remove it"? So this gives the idea).
DFW is never so. In short stories or essays (please, just read "Come on, Simba" in "Consider the Lobster", a report of the voyage of John McCain in the presidential election U.S. 2000). Even in the shopping list, I suppose. DFW is not reflected in himself. Nor in the readers. This is not reflected anywhere. Start writing something, goes around, you are informed, law, takes pity, angry, try to understand and, eventually, he goes on a planet where the atmosphere is made of and where pietas We feed on fear and love and where you digest everything and defecate in lightness. And the best part is that it is his special planet, we are all invited.
"Infinite Jest" is not an easy book. It is not easy to steal (you try to exit a Feltrinelli 1443 with pages placed under a coat stroking his mustache and saying, "You know, are on the 5th month). It is not easy to use (yes, of course, I suggest you open a page and move forward in a progressive but the thing is that there are 136 pages of notes of the author, ranging from endless cinema absurd to chemical decomposition of substances + or - and lysergic + or - licit). It is not easy to program ( as if you were told "Okay, now you're looking for a film lasting 72 hours, once started, 'want' to keep looking, because it leads to drink, eat and get ready to piss and shit in a pan with plastic). It is not easy to keep up (a synopsis is impossible, as well as a hint of texture as well as get to remember all the characters that I have tried to follow sign on a package but then I broke his balls and I just know that I made game DFW). It is not easy to feel up to (not that far from DFW grazing height but flies with us, walk with us, strip us, but from the infinite sense of sadness / joy that seems to squeeze everything right until did not finish and then leave you look at what drained and say "Look, there was also this").
Epper for me today is the day 1 year 1 DIJ (After Infinite Jest).
I feel confused and tend to have conportamenti which are the summation of various characters in the book. It all makes sense and, seconds later, this feeling disappears. I feel a sense of peace that I believe heralds the war. I'm stopping to talk to people. I look at a brick with blue corners overblown and give myself a pat on my shoulder and say "Come on Simba."
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