David Foster Wallace and Breaking the Form

Having been beaten to the punch by Rolling Stone, the New Yorker finally got their shit together for an obituary/tribute to David Foster Wallace. While there is a fair amount of overlap with the RS article, D.T. Max features a bit more in-depth analysis of DFW's fiction as well as a glance at some of the author's unfinished work.

I recently finished reading his first novel "The Broom of the System" and was reminded how much I enjoyed his fiction. Sometimes his writing can reach dizzying heights of post-modern zaniness, but it captivates and connects you with the world, not to mention it challenges you. Sure, "Infinite Jest" has morphed into a sort of status symbol, the literary equivalent of a Porsche in the garage, but DFW's books are more than just maximalist gobbledygook. He always shifted his approach, from his novels and story collections to his various forms of journalism. And more importantly, despite the outlandish plot lines, extensive footnotes, and failure to focus on his personal demons, his work never felt evasive; his essays are candid, his fiction probing.

In "Wiggle Room," an exercept from his unfinished novel, a low-level auditor manages to achieve a level of pure, unfathomable boredom. As a recent college grad ready for the workforce, this portrayal of cubicle disillusionment frightens me beyond belief. However (to be uncharacteristically personal/confessional for this blog [and therefore contradict its title/purpose and rendering it as a misnomer]), I'd at least find solace in having job security. I've recently finished a temp gig and am now marginally employed at a law firm, but I have a degree in an industry on the decline, partly because of a recession but steadily because of technological advancement. It's unfortunate to have an unfulfilling job, but that lack of fulfillment begins to permeate your entire life when you don't have a job.

And perhaps the paradox of tapping out blog entries devoid of personal history and anecdotes is futile. Maybe this is the one entry to acknowledge blogging's inherent narcissism, the time to throw that crippling sense of self-consciousness out the window. Because that's what DFW struggled with throughout his career: producing creative, meaningful, honest writing without the artifice, irony, disingenuousness, etc. So maybe that was the impetus for this blog, even if it's strictly surreal encounters in dreams or casual pop-cultural quips, that it can forge some sort of connection. If barely anybody reads this, fine, but here's my 'vulnerable' moment of actually appearing human before returning to the task of hyping the new Grizzly Bear album and recalling a non-existent memory of chasing after Aaron Eckhart.

If you've ever thought about starting a blog, put all your thoughts and insecurities aside and just fucking do it. Chances are somebody will read it and get something out of it.