David Foster Wallace
Posted: June 16th, 2009, 3:27 pm
People, they are smaller than they're used to
Being, aren't they? David Foster Wallace
Thinks so. Wallace doesn't say it, not in
Essays written for Atlantic Monthly,
Rolling Stone, Premier, or Harper's ― "Host" is
Wildly post-post-something, wear your glasses
When perusing that one. No, he doesn't
Say it, not exactly. What he says is
Nothing. Well, it's not exactly nothing,
More like shifting focus, not to answer
Something, but to ask about the question.
On the other hand, an Updike novel,
Dostoyevski criticism, Kafka's
Subtle(?) humor frees his tracts to lecture
Like the dogmatists on English usage.
Genius, strictly speaking, edges further
Than the rest, it takes us to a place of
Different styles, insights, and thoughts, and Wallace
Takes us there with comments, footnotes, "trust me"
Moments, artifice designed for one but
Leading to another genre. Clearly,
Thomas Pynchon, small black letters on the
Cover tell us Pynchon, is incorrect.
Hunter Thompson comes to mind, his struggle
Better shows us simultaneously
Foil, merit, weakness, Wallace when he
Writes about 'adult' extravaganzas,
John McCain's two thousand tour workers,
Pain and suffering in lobsters, women
Watching footage after nine eleven.
One can understand his hesitancy,
Praise his candor, caution. Self-effacement
After all is valued in our culture.
Agonizing over steaming lobsters
Versus seeing insects jumping ― seen once ―
From a fire. Wondering if he was to
Blame, kind of, for what went on that day.
People, they are smaller than they're used to
Being. David Foster Wallace thinks so.
Being, aren't they? David Foster Wallace
Thinks so. Wallace doesn't say it, not in
Essays written for Atlantic Monthly,
Rolling Stone, Premier, or Harper's ― "Host" is
Wildly post-post-something, wear your glasses
When perusing that one. No, he doesn't
Say it, not exactly. What he says is
Nothing. Well, it's not exactly nothing,
More like shifting focus, not to answer
Something, but to ask about the question.
On the other hand, an Updike novel,
Dostoyevski criticism, Kafka's
Subtle(?) humor frees his tracts to lecture
Like the dogmatists on English usage.
Genius, strictly speaking, edges further
Than the rest, it takes us to a place of
Different styles, insights, and thoughts, and Wallace
Takes us there with comments, footnotes, "trust me"
Moments, artifice designed for one but
Leading to another genre. Clearly,
Thomas Pynchon, small black letters on the
Cover tell us Pynchon, is incorrect.
Hunter Thompson comes to mind, his struggle
Better shows us simultaneously
Foil, merit, weakness, Wallace when he
Writes about 'adult' extravaganzas,
John McCain's two thousand tour workers,
Pain and suffering in lobsters, women
Watching footage after nine eleven.
One can understand his hesitancy,
Praise his candor, caution. Self-effacement
After all is valued in our culture.
Agonizing over steaming lobsters
Versus seeing insects jumping ― seen once ―
From a fire. Wondering if he was to
Blame, kind of, for what went on that day.
People, they are smaller than they're used to
Being. David Foster Wallace thinks so.