What to Read: The First Chapter of "Infinite Jest" — One of the Greatest Novels of the 20th Century

This masterpiece by the American author David Foster Wallace is being published in Russian for the very first time. Lifehacker shares an excerpt from this foundational and extraordinary novel.

The Year of "Joy"

I sit in an office surrounded by heads and bodies. My posture deliberately mimics the rigid form of a hard chair. This is a cold room in the university administration, with wood-paneled walls, a Remington painting hanging, and double-glazed windows blocking out the November heat, isolated from the administrative noise of the reception area where Uncle Charles, Mr. Delint, and I were just received.

And here I am.

Above the summer sports jackets and half-Windsor knots along the polished pine conference table, where the spider's reflection of the Arizona midday sun plays, hang three faces. These are the deans: admissions, athletics, and academics. I don't know which is which.

I seem composed, perhaps even friendly, though I was advised not to stray from polite reserve, nor to feign friendliness or smile.

I try to cross my legs as neatly as possible, ankle over knee, hands resting on my pants. My fingers are locked together, resembling a mirrored series of Xs. The others in the interview room are the university's literature department dean, the tennis coach, and the academy’s vice-rector, Mr. O. Delint. C.T. sits next to me, while the others—sitting and standing—are just in my peripheral vision. The tennis coach jingles coins in his pockets. A faint gastrointestinal scent seems to linger in the air. The ridged sole of my sponsored Nike sneaker runs parallel to the trembling loafer of my mother's half-brother, who is here as the academy rector, sitting on a chair seemingly to my right, also facing the deans.

The dean on the left is thin and sallow, his frozen smile resembling a barely discernible imprint in an unyielding material. He belongs to a type of person I have come to especially appreciate lately: he demands no answers, instead narrating my story on my behalf. Receiving a stack of printouts from the lion-like middle dean, the thin one with the smile starts addressing the pages rather than me.

— Your name is Harold Incandenza, eighteen years old, your high school graduation date is approximately a month away, you study at the Enfield Tennis Academy boarding school in Enfield, Massachusetts, where you also live, — his rectangular reading glasses look like two tennis courts tipped on their sides. — According to Coach White and Dean [inaudible], you are a promising junior tennis player with regional, national, and continental rankings, a potential member of ONANSA; Coach White decided to admit you to the team based on correspondence with Dr. Travis, who is present here… starting from February this year, — the top pages are neatly moved to the bottom of the stack. — You have been residing at Enfield Tennis Academy since you were seven.

I consider whether to risk scratching my chin on the right side, where I have a lipoma.

— Coach White informs us that, in his opinion, the program and achievements of Enfield Tennis Academy deserve great respect and that the University of Arizona’s team has benefited significantly in the past from enrolling some former ETA graduates, one of whom, Mr. Aubrey F. Delint, is present with you today. Coach White and his team have convinced us…

The yellow administrator’s speech is sparse but, I must admit, extremely clear. The Literature Department has an excess of eyebrows. The right dean is oddly scrutinizing my face.

Uncle Charles takes the floor: he guesses the deans are cautiously skeptical of his claims, as he might seem an overly enthusiastic ETA supporter, but he assures everyone that all the above is true and that currently, ten of the top thirty junior tennis players across all age groups attend Enfield Tennis Academy, and I, usually called “Hal,” am among the cream of the crop. The right and middle deans smile professionally; Delint and the coach nod their heads; the left dean clears his throat:

— …that already in your freshman year you will be able to help the university tennis team achieve great success. We are very pleased, — he says or reads, putting a page at the bottom of the stack, — that a competition of some considerable importance gave us the opportunity to meet with you and discuss your application for possible admission, study, and scholarship provision.

— I was asked to add that Hal was seeded third in the singles under-18 category at the prestigious Southwest invitational "Whataburger" tournament at the Randolph Tennis Center, — presumably the Athletic Department speaks. He tilts his head; I see his freckled scalp.

— In Randolph Park, near the famous "El Con Marriott" complex, — inserts C.T., — the entire academy community unanimously agrees this is a top-tier venue, and…

— Exactly, Chuck. And according to Chuck, Hal has already lived up to his seeding by reaching the semifinals, having achieved an apparently impressive victory this morning, and tomorrow he plays again at the Center against the winner of today’s quarterfinal, the match, if I’m not mistaken, scheduled for 8:30 AM…

— They try to start before the local infernal heat kicks in. At least it will be dry.

— …and has already qualified for the winter Continental indoor tournament in Edmonton, as Kirk informs us… — he lifts his head up and to the left to glance at the coach, whose bright smile literally shines against the sunburned face. — And that’s truly impressive, — the dean smiles, looking at me. — Is that correct, Hal?

C.T. relaxes, crossing his arms; his triceps shimmer with cool sunbeams.

— That’s right, Bill. — He smiles. His mustache always looks a bit crooked. — And I’ll tell you more: Hal is very excited, happy, and thrilled to be invited for the third consecutive year to the Invitationals. He’s glad to return to his favorite places, to meet your alumni and coaching staff, and that he has already justified such a high seeding against strong competition this week, still remaining in the game, and, as they say, his song is not yet sung, so to speak. But, of course, most of all, he’s glad for the chance to meet you, gentlemen, and see the facilities here. Everything he’s seen here is top-notch.

Silence falls. Delint shifts his back against the wooden panel, changing his support point. My uncle smiles brightly, adjusting his already neat watch strap. Sixty-two and a half percent of the faces in the room look at me with pleasant anticipation. My heart pounds like a boot in a washing machine. I try to put on what I think people will accept as a smile. I turn slightly, as if addressing a smile to everyone present.

And silence again. The yellow dean’s eyebrows form a parabola. The other two look at the Literature Department. The coach steps toward the wide window, stroking his closely cropped nape. Uncle Charles smooths his hand just above his watch. Sharp curved shadows of palms move over the pine table’s shine; the shadows of heads resemble black moons.

— Chuck, is Hal okay? — asks the Athletic Department. — He seems to have… well, grimaced. Is he in pain? Do you have pain, son?

— Hal is as healthy as a bull, — uncle smiles and casually waves it off. — He just has, let’s say, a slight facial tic, probably from adrenaline, being on your impressive campus, justifying his seeding, not having lost a set yet, and having received a genuine official written offer from Coach White, not only without a registration fee but with a scholarship for living expenses, on Pacific-10 letterhead, and is likely ready, as he told me, to sign a national letter of intent today, — C.T. looks at me with a frighteningly kind gaze. I wisely relax all my facial muscles, erase any expression, and cautiously fix my eyes on the dean’s central tie knot.

My silent response to the expected silence somehow affects the room’s atmosphere; dust and lint from jackets swirl near the air conditioner and dance jerkily in the oblique light from the window; the air above the table is like over a freshly poured glass of seltzer. The coach, with a slight accent neither British nor Australian, tells C.T. that the interview with the applicant, usually a pleasant formality, will make a brighter impression if the applicant speaks for himself. The right and middle deans lean toward each other, quietly discussing something, their bodies forming something like a leather-and-hair wigwam. I suppose the tennis coach confused "make an impression" with "create an impression," though "make an impact," albeit clumsier, would be more phonetically appropriate here as an error. The flat yellow-faced dean leans forward, baring his teeth, seemingly feigning anxiety. He folds his hands over the conference table’s surface. His fingers seem to pair, while I unclasp my series of four Xs and grip the chair’s edges tightly.

We need to have an honest conversation about potential issues related to my admission, he begins. Then he talks about honesty and its importance.

— My department has accumulated some questions regarding your test results, Hal, — he looks at a colored chart of standardized scores framed by his hands. — The admissions committee reviewed the test scores which, — I’m sure you know and can explain, — shall we say… fall below average.

They expect explanations from me.

Clearly, this truly sincere yellow dean on the left is the head of the admissions committee. And undoubtedly, the small bird-like figure on the right is the Athletic Department, because the wrinkles on the lion-like dean’s face in the center fold into something resembling an expression of offense, as if saying, "I eat some kind of crap and am extremely glad to have something to wash it down with," — a professional expression of doubt among academics. So, Plain Loyalty to Standards sits in the middle. My uncle looks at the Athletic Department as if confused. He shifts slightly in his chair.

The discrepancy between the Admissions Committee’s hand color and face color is simply striking.

— …the oral exam results are closer to zero than what we are used to seeing from applicants, especially compared to the academic transcript from the institution where your mother and her brother hold leadership positions… — he reads directly from the sheet in the ellipse formed by his hands, — according to which, over the past year, results have, yes, slightly declined, but by "declined" I mean they became outstanding, whereas the last three years were simply incredible.

— Extraordinary.

— Most schools don’t award grades with multiple pluses, — says the Literature Department dean, his expression impossible to interpret.

— Such… how shall I put it… discrepancy, — says the Admissions Committee, his face expressing sincerity and concern, — I must admit, serves as a kind of warning signal of potential concern when considering your admission.

— Therefore, we ask you to explain this discrepancy, if not to say outright — cheating, — the Academic Department’s thin voice says, rather absurd given the large size of his head.

— Of course, by "incredible" you meant very-very-very impressive, not literally "incredible," of course, — says C.T., seemingly not taking his eyes off the coach standing by the window rubbing the back of his neck. The landscape beyond the huge glass is sparse — just blinding light and hot shimmer over cracked earth.

— Moreover, you submitted not two, as required, but nine entrance essays, some as long as entire monographs, and all without exception… — new sheet, — rated by various reviewers as "brilliant"…

LitDept:

— In my evaluation, I deliberately used the epithets "concise" and "refined."

— …but in such fields and on such topics, — I’m sure you remember them well, Hal: "Neoclassical assumptions in modern prescriptive grammar," "Applied use of new Fourier transformations in holographic-mimetic cinematography," "The emergence of heroic stasis in ether entertainment"…

— "Montague Grammar and the Semantics of Physical Modality"? — "The Man Who Began to Suspect He Was Made of Glass"? — "Tertiary Symbolism in Justinian Erotica"?

Now baring his flabby gums widely:

— Suffice to say, we are sincerely and frankly concerned that the holder of such dismal test results — albeit presumably explainable — is the sole author of these works.

— I’m not sure Hal understands what you’re hinting at, — says my uncle. The dean in the middle fiddles with his jacket lapels, scrutinizing the depressing data on the printouts.

— The admissions committee means that strictly academically, there are admission issues here that Hal should be helped to resolve. First and foremost, an applicant to the university is a future student. We cannot accept a student if there is reason to believe his brain isn’t functioning and his athletic success means nothing.

— Dean Sawyer, of course, means the court, Chuck, — says the Athletic Department, turning his head to also address White, standing behind. — Not to mention the ONANSA rules. Their investigators always look for the slightest hint of fraud.

The university tennis coach looks at his watch.

— If we assume these state exam scores reflect the applicant’s true abilities, — the Academic Department says in a quiet serious falsetto, still looking at the documents as if they were a plate of something inedible, — I’ll tell you: in my opinion, it’s unfair. Unfair to other candidates. Unfair to the university community, — he looks at me. — And especially unfair to Hal himself. Accepting the young man solely for his athletic achievements means exploiting him. We are constantly under hundreds of checks. If we admit you with your state scores, son, we could be accused of exploiting you.

Uncle Charles asks Coach White to inquire from the Athletic Department whether they would obstruct if I were, say, a sponsor-attractive genius football player. I feel a familiar panic of being misunderstood; my chest rumbles. I make every effort to sit silently on the chair, expressionless, my eyes two huge pale zeros. I was promised help to get through all this.

But my uncle looks subdued, as if cornered. When cornered, C.T.’s voice gains a strange timbre, as if shouting while fading away.

— Hal’s grades at ETA — and here I must emphasize that this is an academy, not some camp or factory, truly an academy, accredited by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and the North American Association of Sports Academies, focused on nurturing players and students, founded by an outstanding intellectual whose name, I suppose, you do not need reminded of, following the strict Oxbridge Quadrivium-Trivium teaching model, equipped with all necessary facilities and staffed with certified personnel, — show that my nephew’s brain works well enough to digest everything needed in the Pacific-10, and that…

Delint approaches the tennis coach, who shakes his head.

— …he will be able to sense a distinct bias against non-priority sports in all that is happening, — says C.T., first crossing his left leg over the right, then the right over the left, while I listen calmly and attentively.

The once rich silence in the room has turned hostile.

— I think it’s time to let the applicant speak for himself, — the Academic Department says very quietly. — That seems impossible while you are here, sir.

The Athletic Department smiles wearily from under his hand massaging his nose bridge:

— Maybe wait a second outside, Chuck?

— Coach White could escort Mr. Travis and his assistant to the admissions office, — the yellow dean says, smiling at my distracted eyes. — …convinced that everything was settled beforehand, considering… — C.T. and Delint are led to the door. The tennis coach stretches his exaggerated arm.

— We’re all friends and colleagues here, — says the Athletic Department.

This is the end.

It suddenly occurs to me that the EXIT sign for a person whose native language is Latin would look like a red-lit inscription "HE LEAVES."

I would have obeyed the impulse to rush and precede them to the door if I were sure that’s what the attendees would ultimately see. Delint whispers something to the tennis coach. Keyboard and phone console sounds are heard as the door briefly opens, then closes tightly. I am alone with the officials.

— …we didn’t want to offend anyone, — says the Athletic Department, wearing a yellow-brown summer jacket and a tie with small swirls, — it’s not just about physical abilities, which, believe me, we respect and want on our side.

— …there were no questions, we wouldn’t want to talk so much directly with you, you understand?

— …as we know from previous applications processed through Coach White’s office, the Enfield school is managed, albeit quite effectively, by close relatives of your older brother — I still remember how his predecessor, White, Morry Klamkin, courted him, — so the objectivity of your grades in this case can very easily be questioned…

— Anyone — APUSA, the malicious Pacific-10 programs, ONANSA…

These essays are old, yes, but they are mine; de moi. But they are old, yes, and don’t quite match the entrance essay prompts like "The Most Valuable Experience in My Life." Had I submitted last year’s essay, you’d think a two-year-old was just banging on a keyboard — even you who use the word "objectivity." And in our new, compact company, the literature department dean begins to behave like the alpha of the pack, simultaneously adopting much more feminine mannerisms than initially seemed: he thrusts his hip, places a hand on his waist, sways his shoulders while walking, jingles coins in his pockets, pulls up his pants, and sits on a chair still warm from C.T., crosses his legs, leans in so close he invades my personal space, and I see a nervous eyebrow tic and a network of capillaries on the oysters under his eyes, smell fabric softener and the sour scent of mint gum from his mouth.

— …a smart, capable but very shy boy — we know you are very shy, Kirk White told us what your athletically built but somewhat prim instructor revealed, — you simply need to gather strength and tell your version of the story to these gentlemen who mean no harm but are just doing their job while trying to balance everyone’s interests.

I imagine Delint and White sitting, elbows on knees, in the defecation pose — the universal athlete’s break stance; Delint staring at his huge thumbs while C.T. paces the admissions office in a narrow ellipse, talking on his mobile. I was prepared for the interview like a mafia don for a RICO law hearing. Calm, emotionless silence. Like a defensive game, taught by Schitt: "the best defense: let everything bounce off itself: do nothing." I would tell you everything you want and even more if what I say matched what you hear.

The Athletic Department peeks out from under his wing:

— …so it doesn’t look like we admitted you only for your sports achievements. That could cost us dearly, son.

— Bill means how it will look from the outside, not the actual situation, which only you can clarify, — says the Literature Department.

— …how a high sports ranking alongside below-average test results, complex entrance essays, and incredible grades seemingly achieved through nepotism will appear from the outside.

The yellow dean leans forward so much that his tie will surely have a horizontal dent from the table edge; he has a painful, kind, and serious "straight-no-nonsense" face:

— Listen, Mr. Incandenza, Hal, please just explain to me, son, why we won’t be accused tomorrow of exploiting you. Why won’t someone come and say, "Oh, listen, University of Arizona, you’re just using this shy and timid boy for his body, a guy who can’t even speak, a jock with fake grades and bought entrance essays."

The light reflecting off the table surface at Brewster’s angle blooms a rose on the inside of my closed eyelids. I can do nothing to make them understand me.

— I’m not just a jock, — I say slowly. Clearly. — Maybe there are slight exaggerations in my academic transcript over the last year, maybe — but they were made to help me during a difficult time. All grades before that are de moi, — my eyes closed; the room is quiet. — I can do nothing to make you understand me, — I say slowly and clearly. — Let’s say I ate something bad today. [...]

— My entrance essays are not bought, — I say to them, addressing the darkness of the red cave opening behind my closed eyes. — I’m not just a boy who plays tennis. I have a complicated story. I have experience and feelings. I’m a deep person.

— I read a lot, — I say. — I study and read. I bet I’ve read everything you have. You can believe me.

I swallow entire libraries. I read books to tatters. I wear out disc drives. I can get into a cab and say, "To the library, and step on it!"

And my instincts for syntax and sentence mechanics are definitely sharper than yours, with all due respect.

But I go beyond mechanics. I’m not a machine. I feel and believe. I have my point of view. Sometimes quite interesting. If you let me, I’d talk endlessly. Let’s discuss anything. I think Kierkegaard’s influence on Camus’s work is underestimated. I think Dennis Gabor could well have been the Antichrist. I believe Hobbes is just Rousseau’s reflection in a dark mirror. Like Hegel, I believe transcendence is absorption. I can talk you into a stupor, — I continue. — I’m not just a trained creātus bred for one function.

I open my eyes:

— Please don’t think I don’t care.

I look around. They look at me with horror.

In the near future, patients of the Ennet House rehabilitation clinic and students of Enfield Tennis Academy, along with government agents and members of a terrorist cell, seek the master copy of "Infinite Jest," a film rumored to be so dangerous that anyone who watches it dies from bliss.

One of the greatest books of the 20th century, standing alongside James Joyce’s "Ulysses" and Thomas Pynchon’s "Gravity’s Rainbow," "Infinite Jest" is both a dark comedy and a philosophical novel of ideas, a text that redefines what the novel genre is capable of.

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