"A typed note that Wallace left in his papers laid out the novel’s idea: “Bliss—a-second-by-second joy and gratitude at the gift of being alive, conscious—lies on the other side of crushing, crushing boredom. Pay close attention to the most tedious thing you can find (Tax Returns, Televised Golf) and, in waves, a boredom like you’ve never known will wash over you and just about kill you. Ride these out, and it’s like stepping from black and white into color. Like water after days in the desert. Instant bliss in every atom."
— David Foster Wallace’s struggle to surpass Infinite Jest : The New Yorker (via pegobry)
(via pegobry)
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If A.J. Liebling represents the best tendencies of The New Yorker, then you, Adam Gopnik, represent the very worst: relentless undeserved self-fascination, intolerable elitism, and abiding belief in the fundamental importance of your fucking dog. The group “H.L. Mencken, A.J. Liebling, and Adam Gopnik” includes two of the biggest badasses of 20th century journalism and one dude who believes that “Just a year ago, I gave up sweets” is a legitimately enticing first sentence to readers not related by blood to Adam Gopnik.
Go write another book that will be the talk of Upper East Side private school waiting rooms and give me fewer pages in my New Yorker to flip past in frustration, you twee little pastry fetishist.
“The cynics are right nine times out of ten.” - H.L. Mencken. He would have rather written for Gawker, anyhow.
"
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Adam Gopnik says H.L. Mencken wasn’t New Yorker material … Hamilton Nolan GOES IN.
I love this shit.
