I’m sure his non-fiction is great but it will never compare to the drug-fueled adventures at Enfield Tennis Academy. Wallace is one of those writers who provokes you to rage at his self-mutilated prose slightly more often than he reduces you to giggles or lifts you up into ecstasy. The lows are low, and at a precisely calculated depth, but damn are those highs up there. In that I think he’s like some of his other contemporaries, i.e. DeLillo and Pynchon.
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