In 1996 I was seventeen, a high school drop out, in beauty school, and dating a boy who liked to read as much as I did. However, while I was busy reading William Sommerset Maugham, Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and the like, my boyfriend was scouring the book review section of the Los Angeles Times for new fiction to read. Ever the insolent competitor, I began to at least try and keep up with him, and bought this new massive novel that all the papers were talking about, Infinite Jest. I managed to read it on breaks in between lessons on how to tint and perm hair. It was funny; it was crass; it was slightly incomprehensible; there were these footnotes that would take forever to get through, but always seemed worth it; I loved it. My snobby soon to be ex boyfriend had the book, but couldn't get through it, and I considered my tackling of it a triumph, and soon began recommending it to those I felt would enjoy it.
Five years later, I would still be recommending it to certain, special people. When I ran into the boyfriend, he would ask me, like a dunce, "oh, did you ever get around to reading Infinite Jest?", and I would have to remind him that I read it before he did. I recall the previous not only in the attempt to prove my ex a pretentious dufus (and myself?), but also to show that even betwixt rancorous old lovebirds there stands the mutual appreciation of David Foster Wallace and Infinite Jest. It's always on my list.
There are others, certainly more well read than I, who have loved this book with a fierceness I haven't approached, yet. Brandon wrote an eloquent and lovely synopsis here. I haven't read the novel in a few years, so I can't remember all of the plot and sub plots that dominate the pages. What I do recall is knowing, even as an uneducated mid-teen, that this book was special, and was something to be paid attention to, and demanded to be shared. It's a guide to an era I am familiar with, but that many fail to understand, or find reason for. It tries. It overachieves and conquers, and yet tragedy befalls it's every turn. It is like Shakespeare. It makes the simple expand into the infinitely complicated. It's so funny.
The novel arrived at a time in my life when my creative energy was gathering a lot of momentum. I was writing all the time: letters, prose, and stories. None of it comes close to the genius of Wallace, but it does remind me that he had this energy that shone out of his work. His energy and prolific writing style were inescapable.
He passed away, yesterday. He apparently committed suicide by hanging. My reaction to this reminds me of when I read that Hemingway had killed himself. Although I believe Hemingway was 20 years older than Wallace, and his suicide occurred long before I was born, I still felt a loss that was indescribable. Valuing someone's art, and even a general consensus that someone's art is valuable, is no real basis for a hope that the individual will feel valued to the extent that life becomes tolerable. And even though I believe in free will, and know that there may be no connection whatsoever, I can't help but be frustrated for the American artist's plight in a culture glutted with false promises of meaning and satisfaction. For some, it never comes.
On the other hand, Wallace's last action doesn't surprise me. The irony of his death is in line with his work. However, the loss remains. The immediate future of American Literature is darkened by his demise. I will miss reading something new from DFW.
Also, as he was an instructor at Pomona College, I would like to take this opportunity to share with you that he was a much beloved professor, and that for those of you who feel you are not appreciated, or not of any use, or fighting a rising tide of apathy that holds no promise of ebbing, let me assure you, you are loved and esteemed as much, if not more, than he was and is. It may not keep you off the ladder, but it is my attempt at consolation for those who search for meaning in existence.
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