Wallace's writing is ineffably and endlessly readable. Even when I am not too interested in the subject Wallace chose to write about, I can enjoy the way it is written about. Tennis stuff was definitely not for me. Yes, those essays are in some sense about him, his experiences, but I was not quite entertained by whatever was going on there. In this work, Wallace is at his best when he is discussing media and the postmodern condition it has found itself in. Irony is truly in a cunningly approving, compulsorily rejective state, right now. I will be going back to those essays probably for years to come for the sheer fun of it. The rest of it was fine. As I said, nothing mind-blowing, but eminently enjoyable.