1517 pages. a block of a book. standing there, in the library, in the shelf with the new books. luck, i think. "looks like i am the first," i say to the woman at the library counter. she nods, then mixes up authors.
back home, i realize my own mistake: reading David Foster Wallace in German makes about as much sense as reading James Joyce in translation, especially for someone who can understand the original. Infinite Jest, it has a slightly different vibe than Unendlicher Spass.
so i browse the book at random. and find the line about the one who translated the work: it took him 6 years. must have been a strange time.
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