I did it! I finished a whole book (of essays) by David Foster Wallace! Based on this experience, I remain satisfied with the three-tries-makes-permanent DNF I have awarded his 1000-page epic Infinite Jest.

DFW's lauded style is known to be verbose, verging on bloated, rife with foot- and endnotes and hinging on the reader's willingness to gaze into the author's navel. I found that sometimes he makes this fun, and other times it's like being trapped on a city bus with a drunk version of your most tediously inappropriate professor. I assume a lot of this has to do with his disinclination to extend something called Empathy, which DFW surely has in spades but seems to keep tucked under his conceptual fedora until a willing editor makes him cough it up by whacking him with a rolled up Teen Vogue circa 2016. (That's how I'd do it, anyway.)

There are seven essays in this book and I would say that two are worth reading: the poignant opener and the entertaining title essay. The first is a stirring journey through Midwest nostalgia, and the final is an anxiety-laced gonzo dive into the depths of cruise culture, full of asides both rewarding and quotable. Fans of amateur sports writing with tolerance for exasperating masculinity might also find enjoyment in the penultimate tennis piece.

Beyond that, unless you are inspired by your gourmandise for bloviating misogyny or blowhard misanthropy, I would steer clear.