For most people, simply having a copy of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest—once a cult doorstop of a novel, now a point of honor/contention among readers—on the bookshelf or coffee table is enough to impress. I’ve got two worn copies, just to be on the safe side. That way, when someone asks if I’ve actually read it, trying to get one over on me, I can say: “Yeah, but forever ago. Why, did you just finish?”
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