It's no secret I'm not a big David Foster Wallace fan. I think his characters rant and rave in a style that's an airfield away from real human dialogue, and it's just about impossible to bring suspension of disbelief into reading most of his stuff. His prose usually makes me feel like I'm going to pass out or box my own ears if he doesn't stop and breathe soon.
But I have to admit he can turn a sharp phrase sometimes, and I'm always curious to see weird young influential authors in person—so when my pal Erin invited me along to hear him speak in the Haight last night, it seemed like a good idea. (Social note: Fellow litfreaks in attendance included Cement Brunette and Miss Mobtown, serendipitously seated in the row behind Erin when I got there.)
Surprise! Wallace is witty, erudite, a self-proclaimed "kind of an asshole," and (my favorite part) he seems genuinely angst-ridden about the world and his place in it. Like he's compelled to write by way of sorting out the big mess we've all made, taking full responsibility for his share. He knits his brow in a way that makes you believe. And he's built like he lifts anvils all day. Rowr.
Specific things that won me over, other than his forearms:
1. You'd think he'd be a seasoned pro by now, but he was visibly anxious onstage and made no bones about it: "I know I'm supposed to look up every few minutes and make eye contact, but if I do that, I'll get nervous and lose my place on the page. So this is our moment, right now. Then I'm going to read. But don't worry—I'm very aware that you're here."
2. He chose to read a straightforward, simple, heartfelt, bitter, funny, and winningly self-deprecating account of what he was doing on September 11 and 12, 2001. Bon mot: "Winter is a pitiless bitch."
3. He answered (sometimes thoughtful, mostly irritating) questions from the crowd with insight, intelligence, and an almost gentle, measured politeness that belied his Midwestern roots. You could just about see him fighting the cynical demons that rule his soul in order to behave properly in public. It was fascinating to watch. Bon mot (in response to a question about the final essay in his new collection): "It's a little harder to read than it's worth."
4. If the first three examples don't seem like enough fodder for conversion, try reading this interview Wallace gave to Charlie Rose in 1997 about Infinite Jest. It's hilarious and brutal. You want to tip your hat in respect to the author, then give him a hug and send him straight to therapy.
None of this makes me like Wallace's novels any better, but it makes me like him better, and that's a big step.
She's never met a country she didn't like.
All images and text in this blog are © 2005–2018 Mia Lipman Irwin, unless otherwise indicated.
9 comments:
"Like he's compelled to write by way of sorting out the big mess we've all made, taking full responsibility for his share. "
Finally-- the connection to Grass I was searching for. Thank you.
Sure--I haven't read any Grass (that I remember), so wouldn't have made that connection. But it's interesting. I'll check him out.
those audience questions were some of the worst I have ever seen an author squirm through. Did you know that his book tour included all of three locations? NY, SF, LA, and that's it!
I think he's a recluse forced into the limelight by his own need to spew truth, or at least some version of it that makes us question things. Seemed like he'd much rather be holed up at home than tending to the rabble. At least he had the good taste to include our city!
see, I dunno. I can't get past the fact that it takes a special kind of ego to write something like Infinite Jest, so I feel like the recluse act is partially just that. Also, a haircut for Mr. Wallace, please.
Amen on the haircut! But wait...then what would he run his tortured, artistic fingertips through?
my hair, of course.
I take it back; he's icky.
Sorry I missed it--at least then I could add a more interesting comment.
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