Infinite

This morning at breakfast Jim informed me that “the Infinite Jest guy killed himself a few days ago”. I looked at him blankly, mouth agape. I couldn’t believe it. Almost as shocking as the suicide was the fact that I had scanned the news on several occasions over the weekend and hadn’t seen a single story about David Foster Wallace’s death. I mean, sure . . . a lot of his work isn’t exactly accessible (as I admitted after slogging my way through “Infinite Jest”), but it is amazing. Undoubtedly pure genius.

I checked the headlines again tonight to see if maybe something would pop up. This is what I found under Yahoo’s “most popular” stories: MTV’s ‘Total Request Live’ is ending in November. That’s apparently more important to the American people than the fact that one of the most brilliant writers of our times has—as D.F.W. himself might say—”erased his own map”.

I spent the rest of today in a sad haze. My mind kept wandering back to the Rothko retrospective that I saw at the National Gallery in 1998. Mark Rothko also succumbed to depression, and a walk through his chronologically arranged paintings was like a stroll though his psyche. The early works were figurative, but the paintings became more and more abstract until the canvases swam with subtleties of color. They almost felt like windows into another universe. On the day that I visited the galleries were almost empty, and as I gazed into the depths of Rothko’s works I felt like I was being transported. It was hypnotic. But as I made my way through the last few gallery spaces, the colors began to fade and the paintings grew darker and more ominous. The last few paintings were black and grey. When I exited the exhibition I felt profoundly sad.

I hate the fact that sometimes genius comes with a terrible price. I hate that David Foster Wallace decided to hang himself knowing full well that his wife would find his lifeless body. I hate that so much potential has to be wasted. I hate that sometimes intense suffering can’t be alleviated. I hate to think what it would feel like to watch all of the color drain away from life.

Animated

I have been a fan of graphic novels for a while, so when I heard a while back that Persepolis was being made into an animated feature I was thrilled. Jim and I saw it yesterday as part of our last-date-night-before-baby and loved it. It’s up for an Oscar, and I have to say I’ll be ticked if Ratatouille wins instead. Don’t get me wrong, the little rat movie was very cute. But in terms of artistic achievement I think Persepolis is the hands-down winner.

Other graphic novels I recommend:
The Maus series
Epileptic
One Hundred Demons
Any of the Harvey Pekar publications

Recommended

I just finished reading Special Topics in Calamity Physics this weekend. It’s a good book for anyone who liked The Secret History by Donna Tartt. But not The Little Friend by Donna Tartt, because that kind of sucked.

Anywho, S.T.I.C.P. was quite the page-turner, despite the fact that the literary references got a bit tired after a while. The only major downside to the book is that the author is very young and attractive (this according to her picture on the back flap of the book jacket). So young and attractive, that you begin to think that perhaps your best years are behind you, and while we’re on the subject, why in the hell didn’t you write the great American novel or do something important while you were still young and energetic?

But uh . . . otherwise a satisfying read. Check it out.

Mission Accomplished

Last night I finished Infinite Jest, and I feel like someone should give me a trophy. I consider this a conquest of monumental proportions because it’s been a long time in coming. I originally started reading the novel 10 years ago when it was first published, but gave up about a quarter of the way in. The plot is very complicated and requires a fair amount of concentration (thanks in part to the five zillion characters), and the prose is challenging at best. To complicate matters, there are 388 end notes sprinkled liberally throughout the book that require you to constantly flip back and forth between the meat of the text and the related information.

Anyway, sometime last year I happened across an article mentioned an upcoming 10th anniversary edition of the book. And then I read another article that talked about what a huge David Foster Wallace fan John Krasinski (of The Office fame) is. And I thought, OK, I’ll give that beast of a novel another shot. I plunged back in sometime in November, and more than six months later I can finally lay the thing to rest.

Am I glad I persisted? I don’t really know. I guess in a way I feel a sense of satisfaction for sticking it out, but I think enjoyed finishing the book more than I enjoyed reading it. Don’t get me wrong, there are definitely some interesting and funny parts, but overall it is sloooooow going. A lot of the characters talk in ridiculously complex ways, especially the teenagers. Imagine the kids from Dawson’s Creek (or a more recent example, the movie Brick) on some kind of intellectual crack, and you’re close to getting it.

I find Wallace’s non-fiction a lot more compelling and accessible. His book “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again” is top notch. So I’m not really sure why he went the route he did with Infinite Jest, unless he was just trying to impress the hell out of people. Because there is no doubt that the guy is a genius. Even if the book isn’t infinitely entertaining, it’s remarkable in its scope and ambition. So if you’re up for a challenge, give it a go. Just realize it’s not exactly a quick beach read.

Do yourself a favor

Harper’s magazine recently retooled their website and added an insanely ginormous archive. We’re talking all the way back to 1850. The Harper’s Index alone is worth the price of admission, so if you’re liberal minded and you know what’s good for you, SUBSCRIBE. You will not regret it.

God Bless You, Kurt Vonnegut

I was very sad to hear the news about Kurt Vonnegut’s death. He was such a fabulous writer—the kind of stuff that punches you right in the gut. Not to mention the razor-sharp wit. I discovered his books my sophomore year in high school and spent the better part of one semester gradually making my way through the Vonnegut section in our twee, underfunded library. Breakfast of Champions, Player Piano, Slapstick . . . I loved them all. Anyway, I think it’s pretty strange that his death was the result of injuries he suffered during a fall. I remember reading that he and his sister LOVED to watch people fall down; they thought it was the most hilarious thing in the world. So the fact that he died as a result of falling seems . . . is ironic the word? People tend to throw that term around willy-nilly (and often incorrectly) so I always hesitate to use it. Maybe it’s safer to say it’s an odd way to go for someone how found such humor in trips and spills. I decided to re-read Slaughterhouse 5 in memory of Mr. Vonnegut. So it goes.