This was the first DFW book i have read in my life. ironically due to the essays in this i also have now watched my first D. Lynch movie in my life. i would say that this book was reccomended to me as an introductory piece to the body of DFW’s work because of its essays, variety, and philosophical bendt. I do feel that it would be a stronger rating and more impactful if he had kept it at the level of essay, philosophy and added a modicum of well positioned and poignant narrative. BUT NO. there are HUNDREDS of useless extensive dostoyevskyesque in detail excruciating sentences of fictional narrative to get through in this book. i am now at the stage of my human life where i do not feel any sense of disloyalty in skimming and subsequently skipping as much of a written piece as i need to in order to maintain my sanity and interest in the work. i dont feel bad personally for doing this, however i happpen to think this visceral reaction was intentionally added to the fabric of this book?? like some kind of psychic test of his readers to see if they could endure it?? well, as a reader, and human being, i feel i have put myself through listening, watching and reading enough useless media that i didnt consent to take in. so i skipped it. the only person who would be able to, in good faith, finish every sentence must be very personally interested in tennis. i would also like to say that i was actually enthralled in the ending of this book to the extent that i brought it into the PUBLIC SAUNA with me and therefore the last 26 pages that i finished of the book fell out, IN THE SAUNA. they are tucked into the back happily severed.