/lit/ - Literature

Infinite Jest is our epic meme.

>If you loved the book, please tell me why you rank it so highly.
>The imagery and prose of the book is really amazing. He beautifully describes the desolate landscape that reflects the madness.

>The story was just a little meh
>reading for plot

Do I have to do anything to my kindle fire to use pirated epubs or do the onea from bookz etc have the DRM stripped? In the past I've gotten file errors from downloading directly onto the kindle from the internet.

http://adilegian.com/FranzenGaddis.htm

>My problem was that, with a few exceptions, notably Don DeLillo, I didn't particularly like the writers in my modern canon. I checked out their books (including "The Recognitions"), read a few pages, and returned them. I liked the idea of socially engaged fiction, I was at work on my own Systems novel of conspiracy and apocalypse, and I craved academic and hipster respect of the kind that Pynchon and Gaddis got and Saul Bellow and Ann Beattie didn't. But Bellow and Beattie, not to mention Dickens and Conrad and Bronte and Dostoyevsky and Christina Stead, were the writers I actually, unhiply enjoyed reading. If Coover's "The Public Burning" and Pynchon's "The Crying of Lot 49" moved me, it was mainly because I loved Coover's character Richard Nixon and Pynchon's Oedipa Maas. But postmodern fiction wasn't supposed to be about sympathetic characters. Characters, properly speaking, weren't even supposed to exist. Characters were feeble, suspect constructs, like the author himself, like the human soul. Nevertheless, to my shame, I seemed to need them.

>>6108479
>Pynchon. I have never understood why it's considered such a well written opening though. It's such a long sentence.
>"Snow-Balls have flown their Arcs, starr'd the Sides of Outbuildings, as of Cousins, carried Hats away into the brisk Wind off Delaware,-- the Sleds are brought in and their Runners carefully dried and greased, shoes deposited in the back Hall, a stocking'd-foot Descent made upon the great Kitchen, in a purposeful Dither since Morning, punctuated by the ringing Lids of Boilers and Stewing-Pots, fragrant with Pie-Spices, peel'd Fruits, Suet, heated Sugar,-- the Children, having all upon the Fly, among rhythmic slaps of Batter and Spoon, coax'd and stolen what they might, proceed, as upon each afternoon all this snowy December, to a comfortable Room at the rear of the House, years since given over to their carefree Assaults."