You can't get more glowing than this final paragraph of the review... and I couldn't agree more:
But I have gone on longer than planned. I hope I haven't spoiled anything, though I also don't believe this book is even remotely spoilable. I began this review wanting badly to tell you how the genius of The Pale King is less literary than personal. I wanted to explain the experience of reading it, which I understand now is very hard, like trying to describe the color green. I have used far too many words to make a simple point: this book marks an extremely important moment in American literature, when David Foster Wallace—who we know was Dave to students and friends and everyone but the vast majority of us who could only love his writing, not the man, though some claimed to—published a book that moves, as he had always hoped, beyond metafiction, into an artistic mode transcendent and truly shared, call it what you will. Because you, of course, could have a totally different perspective on all of this. If so, I will try very hard to understand.