I just finished reading IJ tonight, and I feel some combination of
rage and
disapointment over it. To say that the book lacks plot is an oversimplification,
JOI's theories on film (particularly
anticonfluentialism) help rationalize the end of the book.
In a way, the book actually parallels my own experience with
addiction. For the last 100 pages, I knew how the book would end and how it would affect me, yet I kept plowing along, turning page after page, and then being cut off at the height of my interest.
Of course, pouring
coffee down my
gullet while reading the last 150 pages didn't help much. By the time I finally slammed the book down on the table in disgust at the end, I had definately had
too much coffee, the dawn had broken and mild paranoia had set in. The strange man in my
all night diner, who looked suspiciously like DFW, who was looking at me strangely as I paid my bill was another bonus. The car who was annoyingly trying to sit in my
blind spot as I drove down the deserted 6a Saturday mainstreet with a license plate reading "JOKE" was another nice gesture.
The only positive thing I can say about this tome at the moment is that it will force you to think by the time you finish. Perhaps it sounds trite and cliche, but your experience of the book can't help but be shaped by all of your previous life experiences.
I've realized how difficult being a book critic must be; trying to talk about the work without giving anything away. Of all the reviews on the cover, the only one that really comes close to how I feel is the comparison to Naked Lunch, which in a way throws the whole book itself into a different light.