David Foster Wallace
Infinite Jest

"Infinite Jest" - film (therefore fiction) that creates addiction, makes you forget everything else - vegetative state, complete break with reality - a trap - beautiful American entertainment.
Time no longer exists, advertising has taken even that.

When I go to the other world (the one where humanity is good, that is Death, because no one is left), write with a marker PANEM ET CIRCENSEM on my grave. Just enough to make us spin like crazy tops in a world gone to ruin where there is a clear division between morality and humanity.

The thing I liked most about "Infinite Jest" is the prologue of the "Pale King":

"Beyond the flannel plains, the asphalt graphs and the crooked rust horizons, and beyond the tobacco river topped with weeping trees and sun coins filtering water at the mouth, at the point beyond the breaking, where fallow fields roast shrill in the forenoon heat: sorghum, flourweed, cutgrass, sarsaparilla, nutgrass, jimsonweed, wild mint (...)
All heads nod gently to a morning breeze that is the soft hand of a mother on the cheek. A bolt of starlings shot from the windbreak stubble. The glow of dew left there to evaporate all day. A sunflower, four more, one drooping, and distant horses stiff and motionless like toys. They all nod. Electric sounds of busy insects. Beer blond sun, pale sky and cirrus curls so high that they cast no shadow (...)
Look around you. The horizon trembles, shapeless. We are all brothers."

I can't talk to you about this book, not for incapacity (I wouldn't even presume to claim otherwise) but for a matter of intimacy. There are too many things, and I am no Funes of Borgesian memory. And anyway, I'm tired of seeing and hearing everyone talk about everything, always talking about bricks because David Foster Wallace, rest his soul, is only liked by bricklayers. Or even the length, but what is it, did you want to die at 3 years old?

With all the cell phones, with all the televisions and the band spinning around us, can we really turn towards infinity and proclaim "I'm a modern man!" happy, ecstatic, in full technological orgasm. Because for those who believe in progress, it is difficult to explain why I eat caviar and in other parts of the world only ca. But in the end, what else do we have left? Either this or end up in a rehab house for drug addicts, beautiful and depressed, but still modern.

The summer after I read this book, I went to the mountains for six months. Just for the pleasure of being able to live a little, truly free. Our cities increasingly resemble open prisons.