SOURCE: "The Year of the Whopper," in New York Times, March 3, 1996, p. 8.

In the following review of Infinite Jest, novelist McInerney praises Wallace's talent while lamenting his self-indulgent prolixity.

Reading David Foster Wallace's latest novel, Infinite Jest, I couldn't help thinking at times about 7-year-old Seymour Glass's book-length "letter" home from camp, published in The New Yorker in 1965 as "Hapworth 16, 1924." I felt a similar feeling of admiration alloyed with impatience veering toward strained credulity. (Do you suppose Seymour's parents actually read the whole thing?) I had previously been a great admirer of Mr. Wallace's collection of stories, Girl with Curious Hair, and, to a lesser extent, of the loose, baggy monster that was his debut novel, The Broom of the System, which I confess to not finishing. If Mr. Wallace were less talented, you would be inclined to shoot him—or possibly yourself—somewhere right around page 480 of...