and the tide was way out.
an infinite jest fanmix almost as long as the book itself


  1. “enjoy your worries, you may never have them again” // the books
  2. “dirty water” // the standells
  3. “ollie falls asleep” // berlinist
  4. “los adoléscentes” // dënver
  5. “talk show host” // radiohead
  6. “helplessness blues” // fleet foxes
  7. “born in the u.s.a. (live)” // bruce springsteen
  8. “all my friends” // lcd soundsystem
  9. “white rabbit” // jefferson airplane
  10. “the district sleeps alone” // the postal service
  11. “marathon runner” // yellow ostrich
  12. “me and the devil” // gil scott-heron
  13. “in-a-gadda-da-vida” // iron butterfly
  14. “st. peter’s cathedral” // death cab for cutie
  15. “young legends” // sleigh bells
  16. “the rat” // the walkmen
  17. “looked good (but you looked away)” // the helio sequence
  18. “is there a ghost” // band of horses 
  19. “el mañana” // gorillaz
  20. “journey to the plains” // *shels
  21. “ize of the world” // the strokes
  22. “the winner is” // danna/devotchka
  23. “(nothing but) flowers” // talking heads

listen on 8tracks

‘You’re so naïve, Inc. You’re so sharp in one way and such a little bald fat-legged baby in the woods in others. You think you’re just going to go Here I go, deciding, and reverse total thrust and quit everything?’ 'What I said was what if.’ 'Hal, you are my friend, and I’ve been friends to you in ways you don’t even have a clue. So brace yourself for a growth-spurt. You want to quit because you’re starting to see you need it, and -’ 'That’s exactly it. Peems, think how horrible that’d be, if somebody needed it. Not just liked it a great great deal. Needing it becomes a whole separate order of… . It seems horrific. It seems like the difference between really loving something and being -’ 'Say the word, Inc.’ ’…’ 'Because you know why? What if it’s true? The word. What if you are? So the answer’s just walk away? If you’re addicted you need it, Hallie, and if you need it what do you imagine happens if you just hoist the white flag and try to go on without it, without anything?’ ’…’ 'You lose your mind, Inc. You die inside. What happens if you try and go without something the machine needs? Food, moisture, sleep, O2? What happens to the machine? Think about it.’
“I read,” I say. “I study and read. I bet I’ve read everything you read. Don’t think I haven’t. I consume libraries. I wear out spines and ROM-drives. I do things like get in a taxi and say, "The library, and step on it.” My instincts concerning syntax and mechanics are better than your own, I can tell, with all due respect. But it transcends the mechanics. I’m not a machine. I feel and believe. I have opinions. Some of them are interesting. I could, if you’d let me, talk and talk.“
—  Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

a cold day in a warm climate
a mix for the students of enfield tennis academy

1. “king of the beach” // wavves 2. “is this it” // the strokes 3. “a day without me” // U2 4. “rock the casbah” // the clash 5. “the reeling” // passion pit 6. “the fear” // ben howard 7. “i don’t want love” // the antlers 8. “comeback kid” // sleigh bells 9. “sabotage” // beastie boys 10. “sleepyhead/kids” // mgmt/passion pit 11. “how it starts” // the features 12. “on melancholy hill” // gorillaz 13. “shape shifter” // local natives 14. “a rush of blood to the head" // coldplay 15. “the card cheat” // the clash 16. “high and dry” // radiohead 17. “mt. washington” // local natives 18. “swimmer” // caroline 19. “blue ridge mountains" // fleet foxes 20. “talk” // coldplay

listen on 8tracks

Stice just sat there with his forehead against the glass. His bare feet were tapping some sort of rhythm on the floor. The hallway was freezing, and his toes had a faint blue tinge. He blew air out of his lips in a tight sigh, making his fat cheeks flap a little; we called this his horse-sound.

“Were you talking to yourself out here, or chanting, or what?”

A silence ensued.

“Heard this one joke,” Stice said finally.

“Let’s hear it.”

“You want to hear it?”

“I could use a quality laugh right now, Dark,” I said.

“You too?”

Another silence ensued. Two different people were weeping at different pitches behind closed doors. A toilet flushed on the second floor. One of the weepers was nearly skirling, an inhuman keening sound. There was no way to tell which E.T.A. male it was which door back down past the walls’ curve.

The Darkness scratched the black of his head again without moving his head. His hands looked almost luminous against the black sleeves.

“There’s these three statisticians gone duck hunting,” he said. He paused. “They’re like statisticians by trade.”

“I’m with you so far.”

“And they gone off hunting duck, and they’re hunkered down in the muck of a duck blind, for hunting, in waders and hats and all, your top-of-the-line Winchester double-aughts, so on. And they’re quacking into one of them kazoos duck hunters always quack into.”

“Duck-calls,” I said.

“There you go.” Stice tried to nod against the window. “Well and here comes this one duck come flying on by overhead.”

“Their quarry. The object of their being out there.”

“Damn straight, their raisin-debt and what have you, and they’re getting set to blast the son of a whore into feathers and goo,” Stice said. “And the first statistician, he brings up his Winnie and lets go, and the recoil goes and knocks him back on his ass kersplat in the muck, and but he’s missed the duck, just low, they saw. And so the second statistician he up and fires then, and back he goes too on his ass too, these Winnies got a fucker of a recoil on them, and back on his ass the second one goes, from firing, and they see his shot goes just high.”

“Misses the duck as well.”

“Misses her just high. At which and then the third statistician commences to whooping and jumping up and down to beat the band, hollering, ‘We got him, boys, we done got him!’”

Someone was crying out a bad dream and someone else was yelling for quiet. I wasn’t even pretending to laugh. Stice didn’t seem to expect me to. He shrugged without moving his head. His forehead had not once left the cold glass.

“Hey Hallie?”

“After a burial, rural Papineau-region Québecers purportedly drill a small hole down from ground level all the way down through the lid of the coffin, to let out the soul, if it wants out.”

“Hey Hallie? I think I’m being followed.”

“This is the big moment. I’ve totally exhausted the left foot finally and am switching to the right foot. This’ll be the real test of the fragility of the spell." 

"I said I think I’m being followed.”

“Some men are born to lead, O.”

“I’m serious. And here’s the weird part.”

“Here’s that explains why you’re sharing this with your estranged little brother instead of with anybody whose credulity you’d actually value.”

“The weird part is I think I’m being followed by… by handicapped people.”

It now lately sometimes seemed like a kind of black miracle to me that people could actually care deeply about a subject or pursuit, and could go on caring this way for years on end. Could dedicate their entire lives to it. It seemed admirable and at the same time pathetic. We are all dying to give our lives away to something, maybe. God or Satan, politics or grammar, topology or philately - the object seemed incidental to this will to give oneself away, utterly. To games or needles, to some other person. Something pathetic about it. A flight-from in the form of a plunging-into. Flight from exactly what? These rooms blandly filled with excrement and meat? To what purpose?
—  Hal Incandenza, Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace
No one who talks about God can have experienced God’s Love, [Marguerite Porete] asserts, because such Love “takes away absolutely the practice of telling.” She reinforces this point later by arguing that, once a soul has experienced divine Love, no one but God ever understands that soul again.

Anne Carson, “How Women Like Sappho, Marguerite Porete and Simone Weil Tell God”

holy shit HAL HAL HAL HAL HAL this makes so much sense