Alas, poor
Yorick! Is there any 1700-some-page book that one wouldn't consider self-indulgent? And anyway, what the hell's wrong with
self-indulgence? What is the act of
writing a
novel except exactly that? The only necessary justification for the self-indulgence is the fact that the book got published, and for that matter receives
rave reviews from almost anybody with the
patience to plow through it (and yes the
endnotes are well worth it!).
As far as there being no central plot, so what? A novel of this length is supposed to be somewhat meandering and all-inclusive. Check out Dickens' Bleak House (or most of his other work) for the primer from which DFW learned the fine art of manageable complexity. I mean you just have to be impressed with the level of detail DFW conjures -- right down to a complete filmography for one of his characters (J.O. Incandenza) in the endnotes (including full synopses of such instant classics as Blood Sister: One Tough Nun).
Probably the single funniest chapter in any novel I've ever read -- or perhaps a close second to the Elvis chapter in Mostly Harmless -- is the Eschaton debacle at the Enfield Tennis Academy. Sophomoric? Not in the slightest. Keep in mind he's writing about high school kids half the time!
IJ is an addictive story of addiction, an entertaining chronicle about the ultimate entertainment. It's well worth as much time as you put into it.