Man - over four hundred pages and no end in sight. Most books are o-vvvver by now.
What I mean is that I don't feel really close to an ending, a resolution, even a meaning, to this clearly brilliant, incandescent book.
I guess all I really feel is the brilliance, the light, in the same way that I am awed by the sun: it is the great power in human life but it doesn't really have to have meaning to provide meaning - if you know what I mean.
This line of thinking - that maybe no plot or conclusion is necessary in IJ - makes me wish that DFW hadn't put such pressure on himself to write another great book.
He'd already written all he needed to write.
He had with one book become eternally incandescent like the sun.
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