Call number
814 WALLACE
Collection
Publication
Back Bay Books (1998), Edition: Reprint, 368 pages
Description
In this exuberantly praised book - a collection of seven pieces on subjects ranging from television to tennis, from the Illinois State Fair to the films of David Lynch, from postmodern literary theory to the supposed fun of traveling aboard a Caribbean luxury cruiseliner - David Foster Wallace brings to nonfiction the same curiosity, hilarity, and exhilarating verbal facility that has delighted readers of his fiction, including the bestselling Infinite Jest.
Subjects
User reviews
LibraryThing member nohablo
Absolutely perfect. Cream through and through, with flawless, clarion prose that just peels off your skull and unravels your brain, neuron by neuron. All of the essays are essentially PROPHECY hammered out in DFW's lovely rambling, warm, hyper-articulate REAL TALK voice. And despite the grimness of
All of the essays make you palpably ache for DFW, and ache hard for his particular breed of care and respect and dignity that softens his truly-intimidating intelligence and seeming infinite capacity for self-analysis. His occasional jabs sting all that much more for their raw honesty, but they never reach that level of teeth-sucking elitism and rank hatred of the avg HAWHAW FAT MIDWESTERNERS sneer. So, uh, yeah.
Also! If that wasn't enough! Features the best fucking analysis of television and pop culture and fiction and irony and just plain everything in Television and US Fiction. Seriously. That single essay reads like the Rosetta Stone for, uh, just about anything from 1970 on. Explains Youtube, Jersey Shore, Lady Gaga, ChatRoulette, Gawker. Everything.
So, IN SUMMARY: Everyone else? Give the fuck up. Goddamn.
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the subjects, Wallace's palpable intelligence and sensitivity and just plain humane warmth swaddle the despair in a woozy, weirdly-comforting optimism. All of the essays make you palpably ache for DFW, and ache hard for his particular breed of care and respect and dignity that softens his truly-intimidating intelligence and seeming infinite capacity for self-analysis. His occasional jabs sting all that much more for their raw honesty, but they never reach that level of teeth-sucking elitism and rank hatred of the avg HAWHAW FAT MIDWESTERNERS sneer. So, uh, yeah.
Also! If that wasn't enough! Features the best fucking analysis of television and pop culture and fiction and irony and just plain everything in Television and US Fiction. Seriously. That single essay reads like the Rosetta Stone for, uh, just about anything from 1970 on. Explains Youtube, Jersey Shore, Lady Gaga, ChatRoulette, Gawker. Everything.
So, IN SUMMARY: Everyone else? Give the fuck up. Goddamn.
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LibraryThing member nathanheins
It is probably a petty thing to do to make a point of directly disagreeing with a clearly honest and thoughtful negative review, but it feels like the best place to start my own attempt to put some words down about this collection. What I want to respond to in particular is the argument made in the
And this is probably a root of the tone of Us/Them that works its way through this collection, but I think lots of Wallace critics make the mistake of assuming that his sensitivity to how he is different from the people around him is used by him as a justification for, as the previous reviewer says, "the always-better-than-you-socially-intellectually-politically-ethically-morally-in-every-way-possible" mentality. It might be worth considering that his anxieties about what makes him separate from other people are a weakness, that he understood them as making him socially and emotionally weak, and that he saw them in other people as well. (I think there is evidence for this in this book, like during the cruise ship essay when the author traps himself between his own decision not to get off of the docked boat, so as not to be seen by the locals as a typical "bovine" American, and the reality that his fear of being perceived as typical and American is not only preventing him from what could very well be an enjoyable experience, but also that it comes from an assumption that everyone around him will be looking at and thinking about him as if he were important, which, he admits to himself, he is relatively not). So much of his writing is pointed toward moments of compassion and interpersonal connection that never come; I object to the interpretation that they never come because no one can rise to his intellectual level.
Please respond to me.
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preceding post that Wallace's consideration of the question of audience is somehow lacking or incomplete, and that his writing is too self-directed to ever be concerned with what the reader is thinking or feeling or getting from his (Wallace's) prose. My interpretation of a lot of what happens in this and others of his books has to do with precisely this anxiety over how he is perceived. You can observe this anxiety and think that it comes from a kind of solipsistic obsessiveness, but if you are like me you probably also feel like we live in a pretty judgmental world, and that it is hard not to participate in judgmentality, and that every time you form an opinion about something (another person, a celebrity figure, an experience) you wonder about the degree to which people do the same for you. In other words, if the world Wallace is creating is a world in which many people are a) constantly judgmental and b) constantly in fear of how they are being judged, then that is a world that this collection brings me deeply into.And this is probably a root of the tone of Us/Them that works its way through this collection, but I think lots of Wallace critics make the mistake of assuming that his sensitivity to how he is different from the people around him is used by him as a justification for, as the previous reviewer says, "the always-better-than-you-socially-intellectually-politically-ethically-morally-in-every-way-possible" mentality. It might be worth considering that his anxieties about what makes him separate from other people are a weakness, that he understood them as making him socially and emotionally weak, and that he saw them in other people as well. (I think there is evidence for this in this book, like during the cruise ship essay when the author traps himself between his own decision not to get off of the docked boat, so as not to be seen by the locals as a typical "bovine" American, and the reality that his fear of being perceived as typical and American is not only preventing him from what could very well be an enjoyable experience, but also that it comes from an assumption that everyone around him will be looking at and thinking about him as if he were important, which, he admits to himself, he is relatively not). So much of his writing is pointed toward moments of compassion and interpersonal connection that never come; I object to the interpretation that they never come because no one can rise to his intellectual level.
Please respond to me.
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LibraryThing member missmel58
David Foster Wallace absolutely has a deep and abiding relationship with the language. Unfortunately, at least to me, he comes off as very masturbatory. Very. There are writers with just as much love for the language who leave the reader satisfied—they are making love to me (the reader) with
The question of audience cannot be overlooked when one considers Foster-Walace’s work. What I want from a writer is to invite me into a world they are creating – I want to be there with them. It doesn’t matter to me if it is creative nonfiction, fiction, sci-fi-fantasy—even poetry. In my own writing that’s my goal: to have the reader be there with me, whether I am writing about bar musicians in Ireland, drug addiction, family dysfunction, the importance of Eliza Haywood and Mary Hayes to the early feminist movement in eighteenth century Britain, the importance of Petrosky and Bartholomae to modern Composition programs, or even chickens chasing me around the yard; I want my reader there with me; seeing, feeling, tasting owning what I am saying. Without drawing the reader in, it really doesn’t matter what my point is, the reader won’t care.
Foster-Wallace often writes about stuff I really don’t care about, at least in A Supposedly Fun Thing. Minutia. The TV shows in “E Unibus Plurium” were a blur. I watch about six hours of TV a month—and that’s usually CNN, as opposed to the six hours Mr. Foster-Wallace insists that the average American watches. And I am not a David Lynch fan; Twin Peaks confused me, as do the mathematical qualities of tennis. I have been to my share of state fairs and in a very East-Coast-feminist sort of way feel obligated to remind carnies that most women do not like the attention received from greasy-stoned-ogling men.
I enjoyed the short essay on deconstruction with reference to Derrida/Foucault/Barthes and Hix. I don’t know who he is and didn’t bother to Google him. I actually like Roland Barthes. Perhaps this essay appealed to me because it fell squarely into my comfort zone: academia, literary theory; edu-babble. I don’t understand why it is included in the collection; it is clearly an academic piece and, for me at least, the most powerful statement in the essay could be directed at DFW himself, “Wish Hix’s editor had helped him delete gestures that seem directed at thesis committees rather than paying customers.” (142) In the margin I have scrawled, like this entire essay?
His prejudicial commentary begins early on and from the start (in State Fair essay) it made me uncomfortable. Us and them—or more accurately me, David Wallace and them, the rest of humanity. White people in places black people simply would not go. There are Jews and WASPS. K-mart people. It made me uncomfortable. Not because I believe I don’t have an us/them thing in my own reality, I do, we all do. This to me was an under-current throughout the text. There is us, the white folks, the MFA-ers, the always-better-than-you-socially-intellectually-politically-ethically-morally-in-every-way-possible and you, the other.
David Foster Wallace writes, more than once, in this text about society’s inside jokes and I think he would be pleased if people didn’t get what he was saying that would reinforce his othering. We should congratulate ourselves when we get it. Well, I got it and his text left me feeling like I had been walking through the “Happy Hollow” of the Illinois State Fair where the Carnies are very masturbatory and really don’t care if they offend me either. In fact, all the better if they do. Foster-Wallace left me feeling like I had spent a day with Carnies, who in their own way, are very good at what they do. And now I desperately need a shower.
Finally, I think it is likely that David Foster Wallace is a genius. Bully for him. I have read the work of many geniuses and come away profoundly moved by their ability to manipulate the language and force me to stretch my brain just far enough to try to keep up with their thought process and vocabulary: Marlowe, the Pearl Poet, Jeffery Hill, and Alexander Pope, to name but a few. Jonathan Swift’s Battle of the Books is about fifty pages of brilliant-I’m-smarter-than-you writing that is difficult to put down. William Shakespeare used 54,000 different words in his work and yet one never feels looked down upon when reading Romeo and Juliet or Much Ado. It would never cross my mind that Shakespeare was not a genius –far above the likes of Foster-Wallace. David Foster Wallace is a flash in the literary pan—it is writers who eloquently invite the reader into their world, the writers who insist we exercise our brains along the way who endure. I am selling my copy to the used book store.
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their words: Joan Didion comes to mind. Maxine Hong-Kingston is another example. It is clear to me that Wallace is in love with his ability to use the language in a self-gratifying sort of way. Once I came to this realization (on about pg 11) I began to struggle. He frustrated me, as he seems to have every reviewer I have read. Then it dawned on me that the author here didn’t care about my reaction: except for my acknowledgment that he could write. That he was smarter, more articulate, intrinsically better, somehow. Ok, fine, Slug you can write. You have to wonder about a man who tells you his nickname is slug. The question of audience cannot be overlooked when one considers Foster-Walace’s work. What I want from a writer is to invite me into a world they are creating – I want to be there with them. It doesn’t matter to me if it is creative nonfiction, fiction, sci-fi-fantasy—even poetry. In my own writing that’s my goal: to have the reader be there with me, whether I am writing about bar musicians in Ireland, drug addiction, family dysfunction, the importance of Eliza Haywood and Mary Hayes to the early feminist movement in eighteenth century Britain, the importance of Petrosky and Bartholomae to modern Composition programs, or even chickens chasing me around the yard; I want my reader there with me; seeing, feeling, tasting owning what I am saying. Without drawing the reader in, it really doesn’t matter what my point is, the reader won’t care.
Foster-Wallace often writes about stuff I really don’t care about, at least in A Supposedly Fun Thing. Minutia. The TV shows in “E Unibus Plurium” were a blur. I watch about six hours of TV a month—and that’s usually CNN, as opposed to the six hours Mr. Foster-Wallace insists that the average American watches. And I am not a David Lynch fan; Twin Peaks confused me, as do the mathematical qualities of tennis. I have been to my share of state fairs and in a very East-Coast-feminist sort of way feel obligated to remind carnies that most women do not like the attention received from greasy-stoned-ogling men.
I enjoyed the short essay on deconstruction with reference to Derrida/Foucault/Barthes and Hix. I don’t know who he is and didn’t bother to Google him. I actually like Roland Barthes. Perhaps this essay appealed to me because it fell squarely into my comfort zone: academia, literary theory; edu-babble. I don’t understand why it is included in the collection; it is clearly an academic piece and, for me at least, the most powerful statement in the essay could be directed at DFW himself, “Wish Hix’s editor had helped him delete gestures that seem directed at thesis committees rather than paying customers.” (142) In the margin I have scrawled, like this entire essay?
His prejudicial commentary begins early on and from the start (in State Fair essay) it made me uncomfortable. Us and them—or more accurately me, David Wallace and them, the rest of humanity. White people in places black people simply would not go. There are Jews and WASPS. K-mart people. It made me uncomfortable. Not because I believe I don’t have an us/them thing in my own reality, I do, we all do. This to me was an under-current throughout the text. There is us, the white folks, the MFA-ers, the always-better-than-you-socially-intellectually-politically-ethically-morally-in-every-way-possible and you, the other.
David Foster Wallace writes, more than once, in this text about society’s inside jokes and I think he would be pleased if people didn’t get what he was saying that would reinforce his othering. We should congratulate ourselves when we get it. Well, I got it and his text left me feeling like I had been walking through the “Happy Hollow” of the Illinois State Fair where the Carnies are very masturbatory and really don’t care if they offend me either. In fact, all the better if they do. Foster-Wallace left me feeling like I had spent a day with Carnies, who in their own way, are very good at what they do. And now I desperately need a shower.
Finally, I think it is likely that David Foster Wallace is a genius. Bully for him. I have read the work of many geniuses and come away profoundly moved by their ability to manipulate the language and force me to stretch my brain just far enough to try to keep up with their thought process and vocabulary: Marlowe, the Pearl Poet, Jeffery Hill, and Alexander Pope, to name but a few. Jonathan Swift’s Battle of the Books is about fifty pages of brilliant-I’m-smarter-than-you writing that is difficult to put down. William Shakespeare used 54,000 different words in his work and yet one never feels looked down upon when reading Romeo and Juliet or Much Ado. It would never cross my mind that Shakespeare was not a genius –far above the likes of Foster-Wallace. David Foster Wallace is a flash in the literary pan—it is writers who eloquently invite the reader into their world, the writers who insist we exercise our brains along the way who endure. I am selling my copy to the used book store.
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LibraryThing member detailmuse
A collection of seven essays about the popular culture written and previously published in the early-to-mid-‘90s in Harper’s, Esquire, and scholarly journals. Some are entertainingly observational, some are densely erudite, all are brilliant. Most include DFW’s signature styles of verbosity,
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footnotes and textual shorthand. There’s analysis of rural life via people gathering at a state fair; of pampered life via guests on a luxury cruise ship; of athletic excellence, specifically tennis. And of film, television and literature, for example “Greatly Exaggerated,” which turned out to be literary criticism on authorial context, a topic on my to-pursue list. (I read the essay twice, at first nearly laughing at its over-the-top-ness in density and assuming it must be satire. But it’s not, and I’m drawn to explore it elsewhere to figure it out.) Though the essays are about pop culture, the setting is clearly DFW’s mind. Maybe he manipulates the reader’s attention toward it, but honestly, it feels gravitational. I have everything else of his still to read, yet I despair because eventually there will be no more. Show Less
LibraryThing member flydodofly
I cannot help but be stunned by DFWs brilliant, digressive mind, and feel so very sorry that he is gone from this world. It is a little like losing a good friend.
LibraryThing member papalaz
I have long believed that David Foster Wallace was a great writer. In his novels though, he is a good writer. His novels always make me feel that while they were painful for him to write they are more painful still for the reader to read. It is in his essays and journalism and arguments that we
Some of these essays and arguments are very good and some are exquisite. In one notable essay DFW revisits a topic I have read him cover before and the topic where I think his writing is at it peak: professional tennis. In this piece, and some others here too, he is a modern equal of Hazlitt albeit in a more modern mode. On tennis he brings enthusiasm, knowledge, humour and awe to bear on a subject which he clearly loves. His insights on tennis technicalities, trigonometry and the signification of professional sporting achievement to society at large make this text shine like a gem. It is in every particular the equal of his famous piece on Roger Federer but benefits from focussing on a lower order player and his relationship to the elite of the professional game. It is a model essay and if you are even mildly interested in tennis then the book is worth its price for this one piece alone.
In his novels DFW is wryly, cleverly witty and dryly humorous, but in most of these essays and arguments he is laugh out loud funny. In 2 I shall recall forever: one on Americans cruising the Caribbean and one on a visit to a State fair he had tears running down my face. And it gets better yet, where in his novels his penchant for copious and often overly-lengthy footnotes ( when reading Infinite Jest I had to have 4 separate bookmarks running) gets away from him to the detriment of the reader here in his essays he deploys the footnote to wonderfully digressive erudition. And best yet, his Will Self-like obsession for littering his clear and shining text with obscure vocabulary that will force almost all readers at some point to a dictionary (and a good dictionary at that) in the arguments and essays this is never the chore that it becomes in his novels.
The essay as a form is as distinct from the novel as the novel is from the short story and DFW was clearly a master of the form. Would that we had more like him. Would that we had more essays if they were this good.
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hear the great writer and we are extremely fortunate that rich American journals and magazines commissioned so many pieces from him some of which are collected here. Would that the UK had ever had such a healthy subset of the publishing industry.Some of these essays and arguments are very good and some are exquisite. In one notable essay DFW revisits a topic I have read him cover before and the topic where I think his writing is at it peak: professional tennis. In this piece, and some others here too, he is a modern equal of Hazlitt albeit in a more modern mode. On tennis he brings enthusiasm, knowledge, humour and awe to bear on a subject which he clearly loves. His insights on tennis technicalities, trigonometry and the signification of professional sporting achievement to society at large make this text shine like a gem. It is in every particular the equal of his famous piece on Roger Federer but benefits from focussing on a lower order player and his relationship to the elite of the professional game. It is a model essay and if you are even mildly interested in tennis then the book is worth its price for this one piece alone.
In his novels DFW is wryly, cleverly witty and dryly humorous, but in most of these essays and arguments he is laugh out loud funny. In 2 I shall recall forever: one on Americans cruising the Caribbean and one on a visit to a State fair he had tears running down my face. And it gets better yet, where in his novels his penchant for copious and often overly-lengthy footnotes ( when reading Infinite Jest I had to have 4 separate bookmarks running) gets away from him to the detriment of the reader here in his essays he deploys the footnote to wonderfully digressive erudition. And best yet, his Will Self-like obsession for littering his clear and shining text with obscure vocabulary that will force almost all readers at some point to a dictionary (and a good dictionary at that) in the arguments and essays this is never the chore that it becomes in his novels.
The essay as a form is as distinct from the novel as the novel is from the short story and DFW was clearly a master of the form. Would that we had more like him. Would that we had more essays if they were this good.
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LibraryThing member RoboSchro
"Statisticians report that television is watched over six hours a day in the average American household. I don't know any fiction writers who live in average American households. ... Actually I have never seen an average American household. Except on TV."
This is a collection of seven essays
Wallace is an extraordinarily clever writer; at times in the past I've thought he indulges himself a little too much in showing this off. Here, for the most part, he doesn't do so. (The essay on literary theory may be impenetrable, but that's true of pretty much all literary theory, to the untutored, and at least it has the virtue of brevity.)
Half of the essays see him in the role of outsider observer, going back to the kinds of people and activities that he once left behind to join the east-coast intelligentsia. But he is seldom scornful; although he's clearly glad to have moved away, he still has connections with, and sympathy for, his subjects. His relationships with Trudy on the cruise, and tennis player Michael Joyce, seem as warm as circumstances allow.
Wallace has a pleasant style, and uses his wit well. He's able to flit from observations of mundane surroundings, to challenging insights into modern society, and back again, without jarring. One highlight for me was the description of the childrens' baton-twirling contest at the state fair, which had me laughing out loud. Another was his terror of being seen, during the cruise, as part of a herd ("boviscopophobia") -- which I think is rather prevalent in some circles, and which I've never had described so clearly.
Highly recommended.
This is a collection of seven essays
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originally published between 1992 and 1996, combined into a volume that shows off a good range of Wallace's talents. The subjects covered include tennis, a Midwestern state fair, a Caribbean cruise, literary theory, the film director David Lynch, and the relationship between television and American fiction.Wallace is an extraordinarily clever writer; at times in the past I've thought he indulges himself a little too much in showing this off. Here, for the most part, he doesn't do so. (The essay on literary theory may be impenetrable, but that's true of pretty much all literary theory, to the untutored, and at least it has the virtue of brevity.)
Half of the essays see him in the role of outsider observer, going back to the kinds of people and activities that he once left behind to join the east-coast intelligentsia. But he is seldom scornful; although he's clearly glad to have moved away, he still has connections with, and sympathy for, his subjects. His relationships with Trudy on the cruise, and tennis player Michael Joyce, seem as warm as circumstances allow.
Wallace has a pleasant style, and uses his wit well. He's able to flit from observations of mundane surroundings, to challenging insights into modern society, and back again, without jarring. One highlight for me was the description of the childrens' baton-twirling contest at the state fair, which had me laughing out loud. Another was his terror of being seen, during the cruise, as part of a herd ("boviscopophobia") -- which I think is rather prevalent in some circles, and which I've never had described so clearly.
Highly recommended.
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LibraryThing member WinterFox
Everyone knows that one's reading time is limited, and so if you haven't read any particular book, or even a particular author, it can't really come as too much of a surprise. When you haven't even heard of a prominent author, though, that can be rather embarrassing, and so it is to my discredit
I can fairly easily say that you get into the writing fairly quickly, and that the professions of admiration for Wallace's style are not off-base. As with most of these cases, there is of course varying quality within the collection - one feels the short book review might not belong, and while the essay on television is interesting and in some ways prescient, I feel it's also rather dated, as well. Looking at it as an analysis of the state of TV at the time makes it feel more valid; after all, it's nearly 20 years past now, that essay, and it still reads well enough.
I did enjoy the Lost Highway and David Lynch essay, and the playing with structure that involved, but I think my favorite pieces in the book really are the ones that can be described as almost travelogues: the piece from a Montreal tennis tournament on tennis player Michael Joyce and what it means to be very, very good and dedicated, but still never as good as one could be, the sacrifices and the gains; the post from the Illinois State Fair, with the looks at the differences in culture; the essay from the long cruise, and the changes that come over one when everything is taken care of. They're long essays, quite sizable chunks of work, and yet getting through them, footnotes and all, never feels like a chore.
I guess that this is the point of Wallace, from what I know: all the desire to be rigorous, to get across all the information one can precisely, while still looking to entertain. There are some very funny passages, after all, but overall, the pleasure of the reading is from getting a different, curious viewpoint, trying to really grapple with the world around him and figure out how to fit things into coherent themes and views, without trivializing the people and experiences in front of him, even if he didn't personally enjoy them. The style of the essays, with the footnotes and the length of the sentences and the drive to connect with everyone he can wherever he is, is definitely different; it's not quite academic, which I appreciate. I do enough academic reading.
On the whole, then, I did enjoy the collection. I don't think I'm as rapturous about him as many people seem to be, but I do get what the fuss is about, and I'll probably try the other big essay collection before too long. But at least I can say, as an author and a character, he's definitely worth knowing about. I'm glad I gave it a try.
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that I confess before Wallace's suicide, I'd never heard of him. There were all these outpourings of horror that such a talented figure should off himself, and I was left frantically searching to see who he was, even. So I'd decided that at some point, I should give his stuff a try, and even if it took a few years, I did get there. I'd been told starting with his essay collections first made a better intro to feeling out his style than the fiction, so I started with this, the first one.I can fairly easily say that you get into the writing fairly quickly, and that the professions of admiration for Wallace's style are not off-base. As with most of these cases, there is of course varying quality within the collection - one feels the short book review might not belong, and while the essay on television is interesting and in some ways prescient, I feel it's also rather dated, as well. Looking at it as an analysis of the state of TV at the time makes it feel more valid; after all, it's nearly 20 years past now, that essay, and it still reads well enough.
I did enjoy the Lost Highway and David Lynch essay, and the playing with structure that involved, but I think my favorite pieces in the book really are the ones that can be described as almost travelogues: the piece from a Montreal tennis tournament on tennis player Michael Joyce and what it means to be very, very good and dedicated, but still never as good as one could be, the sacrifices and the gains; the post from the Illinois State Fair, with the looks at the differences in culture; the essay from the long cruise, and the changes that come over one when everything is taken care of. They're long essays, quite sizable chunks of work, and yet getting through them, footnotes and all, never feels like a chore.
I guess that this is the point of Wallace, from what I know: all the desire to be rigorous, to get across all the information one can precisely, while still looking to entertain. There are some very funny passages, after all, but overall, the pleasure of the reading is from getting a different, curious viewpoint, trying to really grapple with the world around him and figure out how to fit things into coherent themes and views, without trivializing the people and experiences in front of him, even if he didn't personally enjoy them. The style of the essays, with the footnotes and the length of the sentences and the drive to connect with everyone he can wherever he is, is definitely different; it's not quite academic, which I appreciate. I do enough academic reading.
On the whole, then, I did enjoy the collection. I don't think I'm as rapturous about him as many people seem to be, but I do get what the fuss is about, and I'll probably try the other big essay collection before too long. But at least I can say, as an author and a character, he's definitely worth knowing about. I'm glad I gave it a try.
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LibraryThing member DRFP
The more I read David Foster-Wallace's output the more uncertain I become in my opinion of him. If The Broom of the System was a very funny debut then the short stories in Girl With The Curious Hair were mostly a self-indulgent bore. The Pale King was an unfinished husk of a book, but that didn't
This non-fiction collection is a similarly mixed bad. It's a grab all of DFW's early essays and articles and as a result it feels uneven throughout. The near-biographical Derivative Sport in Tornado Alley, a PhD thesis review and the titular article about Wallace's experience on a luxury cruise ship all sit alongside each other in an uncomfortable way. It makes for a slightly disjointed read.
DFW's writing is good, of course, and unusually focused because of the constraints of the format and various different editors. For better or for worse Wallace allows a lot of his character to seep through in this pieces. Often it's funny and sometimes he pinpoints something that's quite startling but that you never actually considered before.
However, occasionally you wish his neuroses took a back seat though because some of these articles end up becoming as much about Wallace as their intended subject. Perhaps this is just a side effect (on my part) since the study his character has undergone after his suicide or maybe it's just "new journalism" in general; but at times I did wish Wallace focused more on putting his intellect to work on probing what he saw instead of telling us about his slight agoraphobia or how he dislikes scary theme park rides.
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mean there weren't brilliant parts to it. This non-fiction collection is a similarly mixed bad. It's a grab all of DFW's early essays and articles and as a result it feels uneven throughout. The near-biographical Derivative Sport in Tornado Alley, a PhD thesis review and the titular article about Wallace's experience on a luxury cruise ship all sit alongside each other in an uncomfortable way. It makes for a slightly disjointed read.
DFW's writing is good, of course, and unusually focused because of the constraints of the format and various different editors. For better or for worse Wallace allows a lot of his character to seep through in this pieces. Often it's funny and sometimes he pinpoints something that's quite startling but that you never actually considered before.
However, occasionally you wish his neuroses took a back seat though because some of these articles end up becoming as much about Wallace as their intended subject. Perhaps this is just a side effect (on my part) since the study his character has undergone after his suicide or maybe it's just "new journalism" in general; but at times I did wish Wallace focused more on putting his intellect to work on probing what he saw instead of telling us about his slight agoraphobia or how he dislikes scary theme park rides.
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LibraryThing member chuette7619
Quite simply one of the best collections of recent nonfiction period. Each essay is packed with ideas.
LibraryThing member piefuchs
The title essay is a classic that humorously tells of Wallace's time on a cruise (count those Celestial Project sightings!). The remainder of the book is inconsistent.
LibraryThing member librarianbryan
DISCLAIMER: I only read the essay about David Lynch.Really 3 essays in one: an on-the-set report about Lost Highway, satirical expose about the production of a Hollywood film, and a personal account of the significance of Lynch's work in Wallace's own life. The piece was not helped by is tripartite
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nature. The stench of Hollywood sleaze was nothing new, nor was the analysis of Lynch's oeuvre, myself being a long time Lynch fan. Wallace's perception of the particular production he was assigned to cover was interesting though. He seemed to have high hopes and foresee positive things about Lost Highway which went on to become one of Lynch's most maligned films.Was it entertaining? Yes, but I'm in love with the subject matter. Was it enthralling? Hardly. With an editor it could have been easily turned into a run of hill production report. Not that it was poorly written, but it was self-indulgent and didn't make me want to read any of Wallace's novels. Show Less
LibraryThing member mikegil
hilarious and brilliant.
LibraryThing member boldray
Hilarious and sad - especially in the light of the author's recent suicide. The title essay about the sanitised life on a luxury cruise is marvellous. Of the cleaner, he says "it's like having a mom - without the guilt!!
LibraryThing member railarson
While reading this collection of “essays and arguments” by the late David Foster Wallace, I made a list of twenty words I had been lamentably unaware of, as well as two that, apparently, he made up:
ablated, anaclitic, appurtenance, belletristic, commissure, decoct, enfilade, erumpent, espial,
Of those 20 words, I have to say that the most amusing discovery for me was frottage, which some of you already know means, “the act of obtaining sexual stimulation by rubbing against a person or object.” I’m not here to judge; I’m just sayin’. Erumpent is also pretty fun to say, and could actually be onomatopoetic if you were to listen very, very closely.
As for the two Wallacisms that don’t seem to exist in the English language, some DFW wiki-tweakers have pointed out that katexic could be derived from Freud’s katexis referring to “the process by means of which libido energy is tied or placed into the mental representation of a personality, idea, or thing.” In this respect, Wallace’s writing in toto could be viewed as katexic. The energy that must have gone into building such a vocabulary and the means to swing it around as effectively as he did could easily be imagined as a primal urge.
Plumeocide is another matter. Wordnik member vbogard22 postulated about a year ago that “plumeo- could come from the Latin “pluma,” which means feather or pen … added to -cide (Latin, kill) would come to mean something along the lines of ‘death of the pen.’” Given Wallace’s tragic end by his own hand, the fact that he may have coined a word for the silencing of a writer is prescient and a bit creepy.
I was beguiled, beleaguered, and besotted by Wallace’s use of language, often all at the same time. In much the same way that Wallace thought he was a decent tennis player until he got the opportunity to view the pros in action, I thought that I could, on occasion, craft a clever line. I see now that there are players out there operating on a whole different plane. I almost forgot to mention that the book is really funny.
Cheers to you, Wallace, wherever you are.
ablated, anaclitic, appurtenance, belletristic, commissure, decoct, enfilade, erumpent, espial,
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exergue, frottage, hieratic, lalations, otiose, preterite, sedulous, threnody, titivation, ventricose, weltschmerzOf those 20 words, I have to say that the most amusing discovery for me was frottage, which some of you already know means, “the act of obtaining sexual stimulation by rubbing against a person or object.” I’m not here to judge; I’m just sayin’. Erumpent is also pretty fun to say, and could actually be onomatopoetic if you were to listen very, very closely.
As for the two Wallacisms that don’t seem to exist in the English language, some DFW wiki-tweakers have pointed out that katexic could be derived from Freud’s katexis referring to “the process by means of which libido energy is tied or placed into the mental representation of a personality, idea, or thing.” In this respect, Wallace’s writing in toto could be viewed as katexic. The energy that must have gone into building such a vocabulary and the means to swing it around as effectively as he did could easily be imagined as a primal urge.
Plumeocide is another matter. Wordnik member vbogard22 postulated about a year ago that “plumeo- could come from the Latin “pluma,” which means feather or pen … added to -cide (Latin, kill) would come to mean something along the lines of ‘death of the pen.’” Given Wallace’s tragic end by his own hand, the fact that he may have coined a word for the silencing of a writer is prescient and a bit creepy.
I was beguiled, beleaguered, and besotted by Wallace’s use of language, often all at the same time. In much the same way that Wallace thought he was a decent tennis player until he got the opportunity to view the pros in action, I thought that I could, on occasion, craft a clever line. I see now that there are players out there operating on a whole different plane. I almost forgot to mention that the book is really funny.
Cheers to you, Wallace, wherever you are.
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LibraryThing member shelley436
Containing essays that are fantastically entertaining and ideas that are exceedingly difficult to wrap your brain around, reading this collection of works by David Foster Wallace is like eating a meal at a four-star restaurant: there are courses that please the senses, others that test the
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boundaries of one’s palette, and yet others that do both, leaving one with a sense of satisfaction at the end. This book is well worth the effort it takes to read. Show Less
LibraryThing member snash
The book is a series of essays, with the ones about TV, the Ill. state fair, and the Caribbean cruise being my favorites. They're full of insightful observations about the mundaneness of life, its pathetic, miserable attempts to entertain itself. They're extremely funny but as the essay about TV
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points out, criticism and irony alone is hallow and so with time one thinks, is that all there is (just as his essays wonder). Show Less
LibraryThing member ckaminski
Placeholder: One particular joy of owning these essays in book form (at least for me) is the awareness that you’ve been able to peek at footnotes that may have received the editorial hacksaw at Harper’s or Premiere. Prior to reading this collection, I thought my favorite essay of DFW's was
It is my new favorite for two reasons: (1)The utterly casual, sincere, unapologetic and somewhat stunning deployment of the adjective "faggy" in reference to Andre Agassi, and (2) the searing, brilliant etiology of dedication, tucked into a handful of sentences at the end of footnote 24.
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either "Tense Present" or "Shipping Out." And while "Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away From It All" is, in many ways, a direct ancestor of "Shipping Out," I discovered my true favorite in this collection: "Tennis Player Michael Joyce's Professional Artistry as a Paradigm of Certain Stuff about Choice, Freedom, Discipline, Joy, Grotesquerie, and Human Completeness," published in Esquire in 1996 under the title "String Theory."It is my new favorite for two reasons: (1)The utterly casual, sincere, unapologetic and somewhat stunning deployment of the adjective "faggy" in reference to Andre Agassi, and (2) the searing, brilliant etiology of dedication, tucked into a handful of sentences at the end of footnote 24.
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LibraryThing member CarlosMcRey
I have to admit that I cheated a bit by skipping the second essay on tennis. I'd say I tried, but that's not exactly true. I read about three pages and then realized that life is too short to spend it reading essays on a sport that I neither play nor watch. Overall, amusing, though not really as
Two of the better pieces involve DFW commenting on an event where he clearly does not belong (one is the IL State Fair, the other a seven-day stint on a cruise ship), which were amusing in a this-is-a-quintessential-Harper's article sort of way. Perhaps there's something infectious about DFW's sort of academic navel-gazing which made me sort of self-conscious about my own narrow life/world views, and then a sort of mental claustrophobia sets in, which kind of limits some of the potential enjoyment.
There was a David Lynch piece, which I thought was quite good. (Although it did reveal that DFW was, at the time of its writing, a little clueless about Robert Rodriguez, which is a little odd since it's not like Rodriguez was that complex a director to start with.) A couple of other pieces, one about authorial intent and whether authors are really dead (in a lit crit sense) and one about literary responses to television, were just kind of blah. The first was a review of a book I was not familiar with and so didn't really stand well on its own. The second just felt dated, as if it documented an inconsequential cultural conflict that had long been superseded.
I guess, overall, I felt like there was a lot of talent and intelligence on display in these essays, but aside for a few moments, they just left me feeling cold--sort of, why should I care?
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funny or as insightful as I'd hoped. Two of the better pieces involve DFW commenting on an event where he clearly does not belong (one is the IL State Fair, the other a seven-day stint on a cruise ship), which were amusing in a this-is-a-quintessential-Harper's article sort of way. Perhaps there's something infectious about DFW's sort of academic navel-gazing which made me sort of self-conscious about my own narrow life/world views, and then a sort of mental claustrophobia sets in, which kind of limits some of the potential enjoyment.
There was a David Lynch piece, which I thought was quite good. (Although it did reveal that DFW was, at the time of its writing, a little clueless about Robert Rodriguez, which is a little odd since it's not like Rodriguez was that complex a director to start with.) A couple of other pieces, one about authorial intent and whether authors are really dead (in a lit crit sense) and one about literary responses to television, were just kind of blah. The first was a review of a book I was not familiar with and so didn't really stand well on its own. The second just felt dated, as if it documented an inconsequential cultural conflict that had long been superseded.
I guess, overall, I felt like there was a lot of talent and intelligence on display in these essays, but aside for a few moments, they just left me feeling cold--sort of, why should I care?
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LibraryThing member billmcn
The part where DFW describes blow drying his hair in the bathroom of his cabin aboard a cruise ship is the single funniest sentence I have ever read.
LibraryThing member HadriantheBlind
Brilliantly funny - I miss DFW even more now.
LibraryThing member amerynth
It's strange to me that when people learn you are a fellow reader, that they seem to then ply you with books (or at least that's what happens to me.) I never really figure out what makes people recommend particular books to me, other than the fact they enjoyed them. To me, that's rather like
Anyway, so David Foster Wallace's book "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again" is one of those books that was recommended to me for no reason I can discern. I didn't particularly enjoy it (with the exception of the title, cruise essay) but this book is definitely not the type of thing I typically enjoy reading either. Wallace comes across as pretty pretentious to me in this essays and I admit I started skimming after realizing this really wasn't for me.
It has, sadly, made me dread reading Wallace's "Infinite Jest," which I'll have to read one day for my 1,001 book list.
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saying, "Oh, you like food? Then you must try my Uncle Melvin's pork chop recipe," without making any effort to learn that I'm a vegetarian. What about my stack of polar exploration books made you think I want to read an essay by a guy who is bragging about what a great tennis player he was a decade ago in high school?Anyway, so David Foster Wallace's book "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again" is one of those books that was recommended to me for no reason I can discern. I didn't particularly enjoy it (with the exception of the title, cruise essay) but this book is definitely not the type of thing I typically enjoy reading either. Wallace comes across as pretty pretentious to me in this essays and I admit I started skimming after realizing this really wasn't for me.
It has, sadly, made me dread reading Wallace's "Infinite Jest," which I'll have to read one day for my 1,001 book list.
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LibraryThing member JohnCouke
Good, but not as good as his "Consider the Lobster".
LibraryThing member pewterbreath
I didn't love this whole book--a bit too much odds and sods for me, though the David Lynch bit was fascinating.
LibraryThing member figre
Well, I’ve now been introduced to the writings of David Foster Wallace and I have to say that…well, the jury has come back with a positive verdict, but I don’t think it was really a 12-0 vote. There are very entertaining and interesting aspects of his writing. And the asides and drill downs
To start with, let’s dismiss two of the pieces: “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S Fiction” and “Greatly Exaggerated” which are far too focused on very specific aspects of fiction. E Unibus etc. does have some interesting things to say about entertainment – television, etc. And reading this with our infinitely-wise hindsight makes for some interesting insights. But the piece itself then digs into that whole literature thing – stuff geared to a literature-oriented audience – and the ears become singed by things going in one and out the other.
Moving on. The first piece is as close to straight-ahead essayism as any piece here. A description of Wallace’s days as a junior tennis player are fun and entertaining. (And, interestingly, it lays a foundation for a later piece.)
It is the remaining four pieces that (I must assume) most resemble Wallace’s writing. And they are the ones that are most worth reading. “Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away from It All” describes a few days visiting the Illinois State Fair. “David Lynch Keeps His Head” is a report on Wallace being on hand as David Lynch is allowed on site for part of Lynch’s filming of Lost Highway – and in the process, providing an in-depth look at Lynch’s work. “Tennis Player Michael Joyce’s Professional Artistry as a Paradigm of Certain Stuff about Choice, Freedom, Discipline, Joy, Grotesquerie, and Human Completeness” (besides winning an award for longest titles – an easy observation, but no one said I worked that hard on these reviews) looks at professional tennis by following an almost-top-notch player through one tournament. (There’s that tennis experience thing I talked about.) And “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again” is Wallace’s experiences on a 7-day cruise of the Bahamas.
The state fair and cruise ship articles definitely have the vibe of the stranger visiting a strange land. On the other hand, the tennis and Lynch articles, while still representing exploration into lands unexplored, are based on some familiarity by the author.
But all contain the asides, footnotes, arbitrary topic categorizations, and nigh-on stream of consciousness approach. (I say that last with some trepidation because, while it can seem stream of consciousness, it is obviously finely honed.) And this Wallace-onian type writing is why people pay the price of admission.
It sometimes stretches too thin. For example, the David Lynch article is 65 pages long and the cruise ship article is 100 pages. That means the digression and detail can get on one’s nerves. But the successes far outweigh the occasional misfires. These are different explorations than most of us are used to. And that is what, when they work, is what makes them work.
All said and done, I would go ahead and recommend this collection. As implied, you might want to skip two of the pieces. But the others are interesting for their content and for their approach. And, at the end of the day, it made me want to put together my own private David Lynch film festival.
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that seem to be an important aspect of his writing generally work. However, the details sometimes become too much, as do the asides.To start with, let’s dismiss two of the pieces: “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S Fiction” and “Greatly Exaggerated” which are far too focused on very specific aspects of fiction. E Unibus etc. does have some interesting things to say about entertainment – television, etc. And reading this with our infinitely-wise hindsight makes for some interesting insights. But the piece itself then digs into that whole literature thing – stuff geared to a literature-oriented audience – and the ears become singed by things going in one and out the other.
Moving on. The first piece is as close to straight-ahead essayism as any piece here. A description of Wallace’s days as a junior tennis player are fun and entertaining. (And, interestingly, it lays a foundation for a later piece.)
It is the remaining four pieces that (I must assume) most resemble Wallace’s writing. And they are the ones that are most worth reading. “Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away from It All” describes a few days visiting the Illinois State Fair. “David Lynch Keeps His Head” is a report on Wallace being on hand as David Lynch is allowed on site for part of Lynch’s filming of Lost Highway – and in the process, providing an in-depth look at Lynch’s work. “Tennis Player Michael Joyce’s Professional Artistry as a Paradigm of Certain Stuff about Choice, Freedom, Discipline, Joy, Grotesquerie, and Human Completeness” (besides winning an award for longest titles – an easy observation, but no one said I worked that hard on these reviews) looks at professional tennis by following an almost-top-notch player through one tournament. (There’s that tennis experience thing I talked about.) And “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again” is Wallace’s experiences on a 7-day cruise of the Bahamas.
The state fair and cruise ship articles definitely have the vibe of the stranger visiting a strange land. On the other hand, the tennis and Lynch articles, while still representing exploration into lands unexplored, are based on some familiarity by the author.
But all contain the asides, footnotes, arbitrary topic categorizations, and nigh-on stream of consciousness approach. (I say that last with some trepidation because, while it can seem stream of consciousness, it is obviously finely honed.) And this Wallace-onian type writing is why people pay the price of admission.
It sometimes stretches too thin. For example, the David Lynch article is 65 pages long and the cruise ship article is 100 pages. That means the digression and detail can get on one’s nerves. But the successes far outweigh the occasional misfires. These are different explorations than most of us are used to. And that is what, when they work, is what makes them work.
All said and done, I would go ahead and recommend this collection. As implied, you might want to skip two of the pieces. But the others are interesting for their content and for their approach. And, at the end of the day, it made me want to put together my own private David Lynch film festival.
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Awards
Pages
368
ISBN
0316925284 / 9780316925280