Let’s pretend for a moment that you’re on an airplane. That there’s a baby rattler being shaken two seats in front of you. That you’ve been sitting in this window seat for the better part of what feels like two days, but can only be five hours, because if it was any longer, you’d definitely have landed or at the very least have run out of fuel. That you’ve eaten every last edible thing within reach and still can’t stop your stomach from growling. That the prospect of curling up with David Foster Wallace’s winding description of a state fair in Illinois and its ever-present barnyard smell and blindingly oppressive heat seems attractive and not just an escape to a different kind of hell.
