Different books beget different sorts of literary relationships. My relationship with Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, for example, is one of shame (for not reading it frequently enough) and dread (of actually reading it). By contrast, my ménage with respect to A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again was typified by shame and desire. Desire: because I found this book to be incredibly entertaining, sagacious and guffaw-producing. But also shame: because I should really have been reading the Kant...

This collection of essays is arranged chronologically, and it's quite apparent how David Foster Wallace develops as an author over the course of these several-hundred pages. Indeed, "Derivative Sport in Tornado Alley" is turgid and all things considered really rather boring. This particular species of turgidity—the bad sort of directionless, fluffy turgidity that you so often find in academically-affiliated lit journals—also kind of bleeds into "E Unibus Pluram" and "Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away from It All." That being said, "E Unibus..." is nevertheless one of the most insightful examinations of irony that I've ever had the pleasure of reading. And "Getting Away..." contains some truly guffaw-producing moments (e.g., the baton-twirling and the zipper/seedy carnies/disassociation scenes).

But the writing gets better (at least stylistically speaking), and in the latter half of the book the reader is confronted with some really quite excellent essays. "David Lynch Keeps His Head" constitutes a curious example of historical irony, such that DFW circa 1995 was essentially an unknown and in fact so unknown that this essay finds him too afraid to even approach Mr. Lynch on the set of Lost Highway (Infinite Jest would be published only one year later, effectively catapulting Wallace into the world of literary "superstardom"). Instead, DFW sort of lurks around the movie-set, observing and judging and advancing some neat theoretical accounts of what it means for something to be "Lynchian."

Despite its annoying title, "Tennis Player Michael Joyce's Professional Artistry as a Paradigm of Certain Stuff About Choice, Freedom, Limitation, Joy, Grotesquerie, and Human Completeness" actually made me want to attend a live tennis match. And fortunately, there is no bad turgidity within the essay itself. (Another instance of historical irony: once again, DFW is timorous and insecure about interviewing a person who is arguably a master in his field [here, Tennis Player Michael Joyce]; however, if you take a jaunt over to Joyce's [extremely succinct] Wikipedia page, one of the few tidbits of biographical information that it furnishes is that the guy has been immortalized in a David Foster Wallace essay.)

Of course, the star of the show is "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again," which Chuck Klosterman once referred to as the essay about luxury cruises. I have trouble talking about things that I actually utterly love, so I won't say a lot here (in fact, why not simply ignore this review and let the man speak for himself). But it's hilarious and evocative and by the end it kind of (like) seamlessly develops into an astute socio-psychological investigation w/r/t the nature and effects of excessive pampering. Fucking brilliant.

Il Fleet Bar era anche il luogo dove si sarebbe tenuto, più tardi, il Tè in abito formale, durante il quale donne anziane sfoggiavano lunghi guanti bianchi da spogliarellista e mignoli tenuti alti sui manici, e dove a quanto pare tra le mie infrazioni all'etichetta del Tè in abito formale c’erano: a) aver immaginato che qualcuno si sarebbe divertito alla vista della mia maglietta con lo smoking disegnato sopra, dato che non avevo preso sul serio la raccomandazione della brochure Celebrity di portarsi lo smoking; b) aver immaginato che le donne anziane al mio tavolo sarebbero rimaste affascinate dalle battute indecenti tipo Rorschach che facevo sulla forma – del resto, oscena – in cui i tovaglioli di lino erano piegati a mo’ di origami sulla tavola; c) aver immaginato che queste stesse signore potessero essere interessate ad apprendere a quali torture deve essere sottoposta un’oca per tutta la vita perché il suo fegato sia degno di diventare paté; d) mettere circa un etto di quel che sembrava un pallettone lucido e nero su un grande cracker bianco e poi infilarmi tutto quanto in bocca; e) assumere un secondo dopo un’espressione della faccia che hanno definito, nel più caritatevole dei commenti, poco elegante; f) cercare di rispondere con la bocca piena a una signora anziana seduta dall’altra parte del tavolo con un pince-nez, guanti di camoscio e rossetto sull’incisivo superiore destro, che stava cercando di spiegarmi che quel che avevo preso era caviale di Beluga, con il risultato di f1) espellere diverse briciole e una cosa che aveva l’aspetto di un’enorme bolla nera, e f2) emettere in maniera distorta una parola che, mi è stato poi riferito, l’intero tavolo ha recepito come un espletivo genitale; g) cercare poi di sputare tutta l’indescrivibile, nauseante poltiglia in un cedevole tovagliolo di carta invece che in uno dei numerosi e robusti tovaglioli di lino, con conseguenze la cui descrizione preferirei limitare a sfortunate; e h) quando un bambino seduto al mio fianco (con
papillon e [giuro] pantaloncini da smoking) ha definito il caviale Beluga «uno schifo», assentire con un’espressione incontrollata e imprudente che stava inequivocabilmente per un espletivo genitale. Stendiamo un velo pietoso su quel che è seguito in questa particolare occasione di Divertimento Organizzato. Comunque, così va intesa la lacuna tra le 16.00 e le 17.00 nel diario p.&d. di questa giornata.

Sehr witzig. Reicht im ICE München-Berlin aber gerade einmal bis Halle. …ein schönes Wochenende euch allen !

VIZIATI FINO ALLO STATO UTERINO DI NULLAFACENZA

Dopo aver letto Infinite Jest, David Forster Wallace aveva segnato la mia coscienza di lettrice facendomi apprezzare il postmodernismo americano e uno stile di scrittura straordinario che non avevo ancora assaggiato. Abituata ad apprezzare i classici dell’Ottocento, con qualche capatina anche nel Novecento e nel contemporaneo, all’ inizio mi sono trovata completamente disorientata, ma poi sono riuscita ad apprezzare in pieno tutto il voluminoso libro, note comprese.
Le opinioni che qui ho letto sono abbastanza negative, il mio giudizio sarà controcorrente. Per apprezzare questo libro, bisogna dimenticare Infinite Jest, si tratta di due figli dello stesso padre ognuno con le proprie caratteristiche e la propria “fisiologia”. Fisiologia perché “Una cosa divertente che non farò mai più” è un reportage sui generis di una crociera extra lusso e non è pensato come un romanzo, una lunga storia di ampio respiro dai mille personaggi e dalle mille storie.
Intenzioni diverse, obiettivi diversi, il virtuosismo stilistico è lo stesso però. “Una cosa divertente che non farò mai più “ è breve e circoscritto, meno faticoso da leggere, molto più umoristico. A me è piaciuto veramente tanto, mi ha regalato qualche ora rilassante e tante risate! Non leggo per sorridere, ma di questi tempi ben venga la sana risata, questo libro contiene scenette esilaranti! E non si scende nel banale e nel trito, lo stile di Wallace così ironico, così tagliente nel rappresentare l’animo umano in tutte le sue sfaccettature, le sue stranezze, le sue manie. Il libro è una recensione che lo scrittore realizzò per la rivista Harper ‘s che gli chiedeva un reportage sulla crociera extra lusso Zenith (ma che l’autore battezza col nome opposto, Nadir, in barba alla compagnia Celebrity Cruises) in rotta verso i Caraibi dove ha imparato che “ in realtà ci sono intensità di blu anche oltre il blu più limpido che si possa immaginare”. Una crociera che si impone come obiettivo quello di coccolare e viziare i suoi ospiti paganti a bordo con feste, simpatici concorsi a premi, spettacoli vari e tanto tanto cibo, dalle colazioni luculliane ai Buffet di Mezzanotte.
E i personaggi che incontra? Un ricco campionario di uomini, donne, persino ragazzini, che Wallace descrive come se fossero degli esemplari unici nel loro genere. Dalle prime pagine, fa l’elenco di tutte le prime volte e le cose che ha imparato:

“Sono stato oggetto in una sola settimana di oltre 1500 sorrisi professionali. Mi sono scottato e spellato due volte. Ho fatto tiro al piattello sul mare. È abbastanza?(...) Ho sentito – e non ho parole per descriverla – una musichetta da ascensore in versione reggae. Ho capito cosa significa avere paura del proprio water. Ho imparato ad avere il «piede marino» e ora mi piacerebbe perderlo.”

Ho riso tantissimo, di cuore, quando ho letto le pagine sullo sciacquone “ad alto tiraggio” e lo spiacevole esilarante episodio successo alla signora Peterson il cui marito sembra “sempre in posa per una fotografia che nessuno sta scattando”.

Giunge però ad un certo punto il pensiero più vero e profondo di Wallace, quello che spesso lo sorprendeva e che lo ha poi portato a togliersi la vita, la depressione, l’horror vacui della solitudine più profonda e pi autentica:
“In queste crociere extralusso di massa c’è qualcosa di insopportabilmente triste. Come la maggior parte delle cose insopportabilmente tristi, sembra che abbia cause inafferrabili e complicate ed effetti semplicissimi: a bordo della Nadir – soprattutto la notte, quando il divertimento organizzato, le rassicurazioni e il rumore dell’allegria cessavano – io mi sentivo disperato. Ormai è una parola abusata e banale, disperato, ma è una parola seria, e la sto usando seriamente. Per me indica una semplice combinazione – uno strano desiderio di morte, mescolato a un disarmante senso di piccolezza e futilità che si presenta come paura della morte. (...) angoscia. Ma non è neanche questo. È più come avere il desiderio di morire per sfuggire alla sensazione insopportabile di prendere coscienza di quanto si è piccoli e deboli ed egoisti e destinati senza alcun dubbio alla morte. E viene voglia di buttarsi giù dalla nave”.

Anche in questo libro le note sono parte integrante del testo, vanno lette per una conoscenza globale dell’opera, si presentano talvolta dei veri e propri racconti scritti in font più piccoli.

Almost completely forgot what the contents were about since my first read when the book came out, and changing my rating to 5 full stars on the strength of the (nearly interminable, but who would want it to term?) title essay alone, which should convince you to never do the supposedly fun thing that I never supposed was fun before, actually, but now, 100+ pages later, am quite, quite sure is no fun and could be no fun, ever, at all.

But my favourite essays were the ones on "Television and U.S. Fiction..." (surely a must-read for anyone interested in the more-or-less Contemporary Novel) and the one on David Lynch (generally) and his film Lost Highway (specifically)—these being, to their credit, two other really, really, really long LongReads.

MUCH less interesting was an equally enduring visit to the Illinois State Fair, which I hereby vow to never again so much as read about, much less consider going to anything which bears even a passing resemblance to anything like it .

And yes, there are also two tennis essays, and though YMMV, obviously, I'll wager he'll get you interested them even if you aren't a fan of the sport (for the record I was, as a youth, when my brother played at about the same level as the author and I trundled along to watch him play, and though am no longer interested in the sport in the least, DFW got me immersed once again, and completely).

Cosa c'è di più affascinante di una bella vacanza su una grande nave da crociera dove tutto l'equipaggio è li per servirti, accudirti e il cui unico scopo è farti divertire?
Wallace lo spiega a modo suo.

Incaricato di scrivere un reportage in prima persona per una testata giornalistica, David sale a bordo della nave da crociera e racconta la sua particolare esperienza trasformando il soggiorno da sogno in un incubo ad occhi aperti.

I passeggeri sono visti come cavie ammaestrate a godere di ogni attimo del loro viaggio, come se ne andasse della loro vita. Ogni giorno, ogni ora, ogni minuto a sforzarsi di raggiungere il Nirvana del divertimento e della soddisfazione a tutti i costi.

Una prosa che esagera volutamente le situazioni in ottica talmente negativa da risultare comica.
Naturalmente bisogna lasciarsi trasportare dall'ironia sottintesa che circonda l'opera per apprezzarlo appieno. Io ho riso parecchio.

Una lettura che se presa nel verso giusto diverte e intrattiene.
Sicuramente un buon punto di inizio per conoscere lo stile di questo scrittore che ci ha lasciato troppo presto.

My woefully late introduction to David Foster Wallace came earlier this year when I noshed greedily on “The Broom of the System,” which humbled and fascinated and tickled and impressed the ever-loving shit out of me to the point where I only gave it four stars because the guy wrote it when he was younger than I am now and I have it on good faith that his later works are even better.

Reading this made me feel a lot of things -- the way it eased my unshakable sense of being lonely in a totally cliched existential sort of way that I feel like I maybe should have grown out of by now being one of the biggies; most of said feelings were staggeringly positive -- but the most persistent and lingering one was this quiet sadness. The dates imprinted on a lot of these pieces (the early to mid-‘90s, not one predating my exit from elementary school) are just long ago enough to start taking on the sheen of gauzy quaintness that I'm beginning to understand and is plain fucking weird while also being an unpleasantly vague reminder that since time stops for no man, death comes for everyone. (Interestingly, the offerings herein don't come off as dated -- cell phones as shiny new things that only the elite few possess! the rise of irony in popular culture! the advent of the internet! Rather, they serve as one big time capsule for a great mind reacting to really strange times. It was so weird (and rad as hell, too) to read about a very smart and very aware adult reflecting about a present I can only recall from a child's long-ago vantage point.)

And it was thinking like that, in the moments I stopped reading this collection to process the range of thoughts it reflected, the ideas it proposed and feelings it gave rise to because I was so dazzled by how DFW made me care about things I’d never had two shits to rub together in regard to before, how he had a wicked knack for turning a simple observation into an unobtrusively significant moment, how he didn’t so much observe as understand the intangibles that were the driving forces of these pieces, that just made me sad that someone with a unique grasp on the human condition and inner workings of everything isn’t around to keep pointing out the unassuming but ever-present imperatives of absolutely all the things, including the pants-shittingly terrible experience that is putting oneself at the mercy of (or simply considering) a Midwestern state fair's death-trap carnival rides. And that I didn’t know to mourn DFW's passing until much later, leaving me to feel like my newly hatched enthusiasm for his brilliance is somehow insincere in its belatedness, however genuine I know it to be.

It also forced me to (very unwillingly, because my brain stops at this station a lot and I kind of hate it, even if it is something made of pure conjecture) think about what terms would drive me to check out early, too. Such things are worth mentioning because someone as willing as DFW was to look deep inside everything's inner workings to find their true meaning, to me, deserves the same kind of respectful concern. Rather than turning me off entirely, though, that train of thought made me even more willing to take DFW's careful deliberations to heart and try to see things as he does in the pieces comprising "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again."

I know it sounds like a cop-out but each one of these essays and arguments brings something different to the table, which made it hard for me to decide whether or not I have a favorite piece in the collection. But I also don’t think that’s fair because each of the seven pieces has a different intention. (Get ready for the oncoming wall of text!)

It’s terrifying to see the dangers of mindless consumption via television’s manipulation addressed almost two decades ago -- the way advertisers always knew how to create a selling image for a blindly consumer-happy, image-obsessed American audience, the way societal conventions change television archetypes every so often, how all alternative trends eventually become bastardized into some mass-produced dross -- and fascinating to retrace the path of Metafiction's influence on today's entertainment in “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction." The nod to New Journalism in “Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away from It All” and the way DFW turns his experiences and observations at the ’93 Illinois State Fair into something bigger and more universal than it appears while capturing what exactly makes it such a unique beast should sound cynical and self-involved but doesn't. “Greatly Exaggerated,” or deconstructing a literary trend that is all about deconstructing previously accepted literary trends, was the headiest of the pieces; if I thought my ever-growing love for postmodernism in all its flavors was the only thing that made me appreciate the piece, then I would have entirely missed the points of both “Derivative Sport in Tornado Alley” (DFW’s own forays into high-school tennis, the success of which he owed to a mental rather than athletic prowess that he seems unnecessarily apologetic about, the way someone who’s really good at something but is humbled rather than bolstered by it is) and “Tennis Player Michael Joyce’s Professional Artistry as a Paradigm of Certain Stuff about Choice, Freedom, Discipline, Joy, Grotesquerie, and Human Completeness,” which does address all those things (and more!) in relation to Joyce’s unflappable straightforwardness and tennis philosophy and has quite a bit to say about the nature and sacrifices of professional athletes and other applicable-to-everyone’s-lives truths. “David Lynch Keeps His Head” may have began as a behind-the-scenes glimpse into the birth of "Lost Highway” but winds up examining Lynch’s catalog and pinpointing all the ways he thoroughly messes with American moviegoers’ expectations and gets labeled as “sick” or “inaccessible” because of it (let me tell you something, “Mulholland Drive” made a hell of a lot more sense than it had any right to after reading this, which kind of freaked me out). Lastly, the piece that shares its title with this collection, a dissertation on the crises, implications and microcosmic representations of the id’s insatiable demand to get back the fuck into the womb for the relief of helpless indulgence via the luxury of Caribbean cruises, might just be the most thought-provoking and metaphorically successful vacation piece ever wrought. Ever.

So, yeah, there’s some varied stuff here but commonalities do emerge. One of the other things I'm liking best about DFW's stuff is that I absolutely have to read every single word and perform a few mental gymnastics to accommodate both the accessible-but-high-minded assertions and the asides that layer his writings with brilliance: It creates a kind of focus that has helped me retain more of his works than more simply written fare. Intentional or not, that same kind of keen attention appeared to be what DFW wanted to coax from his readers, imploring the audience to go forth and value the little things for their unique place in the world in order to better understand (or deconstruct, if you like) and appreciate them. Because nothing is just one thing: Everything comprises lots of unnoticed little things, and appreciating that makes it all worth the effort.

DFW infuses all of his topics with the same careful dissection (and flurry of pitch-perfect, lovingly applied ten-dollar words, which deserves mention for being delightful in its own word-nerd right), approaching an understanding devoid of all judgement, which is what appealed to me the most about this collection. It's so hard to approach a topic without bringing any sort of preconceived notions to the table -- like, DFW acknowledges the possibility of being perceived as an East Coast snob throughout his state-fair peregrinations, negating the impression of such a thing (to the reader, at least) with his conscious honesty -- but none of that lives here. There is no depressed acceptance of the way things are in his intellectual explorations; instead, he finds a way to break down the necessary humanity behind everything, bringing them to a wholly sympathetic, neutral at worst/misunderstood necessity at best sort of light. He analyzes social situations with a mathematical precision, offering a rational discourse instead of a detached report. He wants to pick things apart to achieve not reductive meaningless but sincere realization and factual certainty of a thing's nature and composition and intent.

In this way, he's a champion of eliminating the false veneer of fantasy that shrouds so many unattainable-by-normal-people things in seductive mystery -- that also drives the average Joe to the depths of jealousy and deluded despair. Breaking down the misconception that lies between the behind-the-scenes reality and the polished final dream, looking behind the curtain to understand the hard work and sacrifices of those in the public eye (writers to an extent but mostly film-industry professionals and celebrity athletes) makes them less scary, more systematic, and far, far less enviable.

One of the hallmarks of a genius, to me, is the ability to inspire curiosity and critical thinking in others, which is exactly what this collection does. I don't care if I'm betraying my terminally uncool tardy-to-the-party over-eagerness in this review; I do, however, care that DFW made me give an earnest fuck about tennis. Twice.

n  Like most unbearably sad things, it seems incredibly elusive and complex in its causes and simple in its effect: on board the Nadir—especially at night, when all the ship’s structured fun and reassurances and gaiety-noise ceased—I felt despair. The word’s overused and banalified now, despair, but it’s a serious word, and I’m using it seriously. For me it denotes a simple admixture—a weird yearning for death combined with a crushing sense of my own smallness and futility that presents as a fear of death. It’s maybe close to what people call dread or angst. But it’s not these things, quite. It’s more like wanting to die in order to escape the unbearable feeling of becoming aware that I’m small and weak and selfish and going without any doubt at all to die. It’s wanting to jump overboard.n

I have many quotes to share. Beautifully written, thought-provoking quotes. Clearly (such a cliche, but it's true), it's not the writer's fault, it's me. I really loved a couple of essays (amazing insights, beautiful language) but I simply couldn't connect with the rest of them. Again, I felt like a complete outsider, something that has happened to me before with other foreign writers. I may be gaining a couple of fervent enemies with this, but I really don't see the point in saying that I loved the whole book when I actually didn't.
So, those almost four stars were given according to what I felt while reading those particular essays (standing ovation to "E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction"). They were THAT good.

March 2, 14
* Also on my blog.

Dico solo una cosa: le note <3

Inizio a guardare gli adulatori di DFW, quelli che lo considerano, senza mezzi termini, la più geniale mente degli ultimi vent'anni, lo scrittore imprescindibile, l'esilarante, arguto DFW, l'idolo, allo stesso modo di come DFW guarda in questo reportage i turisti di crociera.
E non va bene, non va affatto bene, perché sarebbe una cosa sbagliata e un po' triste.
Il punto è che non posso fare a meno di chiedermi cosa pensi della superba capacità di osservazione di DFW il tredicenne con il parrucchino descritto nel libro, quello circondato da pacchetti di kleenex... avrà saputo di essere stato immortalato dalla impietosa e sagace prosa del Maestro? Mi piacerebbe leggere il suo contro-reportage, un diario di viaggio della sua esperienza in crociera, in cui il ragazzino tenta di descrivere la paura di perdere tra i flutti la finta capigliatura ogni volta che mette piede sul ponte 12, i sintomi di una allergia cronica, il timore di non avere con sè fazzoletti a sufficienza e racconta gli incontri con quel tizio corpulento, che indossa un berretto dell'Uomo Ragno, calza adidas, fa domande strane, prende appunti e spara giudizi.
Forse sarebbe il caso di andarlo a cercare e chiederglielo.

IL TENNIS È COME GIOCARE A SCACCHI CORRENDO


Un’esperienza religiosa

Cosa significa tenere una racchetta da tennis in mano, cosa si può fare ma anche creare colpendo una palla con la racchetta da tennis, lo sforzo la fatica la genialità e l’arte di questo sport. Chi lo ha spiegato e raccontato meglio di David Foster Wallace? Qui, ma ancora meglio in quell’altro suo breve saggio su Roger Federer come esperienza religiosa.
Lo stesso Wallace praticava questo sport in modo notevole, a livello agonistico. Due, o quattro combattenti, la racchetta come strumento, ciascuno metà del campo, una rete a separare gli avversari (ché di avversari si tratta) senza mai venire a contatto. Metafora della competizione sociale e professionale, della lotta della vita.



E neppure troppo sotto, l’analogia tra tennis e scrittura letteraria: entrambi giochi solitari, fondati sul talento e sull’estro, attività basate su piccoli colpi, agilità improvvise e eventi minuscoli che cambiano il corso di un’intera partita, o di un romanzo. Per David Foster Wallace (e Federer) il tocco (lo stile) è tutto.
Sui sei ‘pezzi’ qui raccolti, due sono sul tennis.
Uno (magnifico) è dedicato a David Lynch, il suo cinema e la morale americana.
Altro brano magnifico è quello sull’influenza della televisione sugli scrittori americani.
Con il reportage sulla fiera in Illinois, reportage olfattivo scritto col naso (mucche, cavalli, galline, granoturco…) siamo dalle parti di quello mitico Considera l’aragosta: è l’America rurale, quella repubblicana.
E poi una disquisizione sulla “morte dell’autore.”



Il tutto immerso nella sua solita salsa a base di intelligenza e ironia, sorrisi assicurati, umanità ed empatia, e la sensazione che il proprio personale acume si espanda a ogni pagina (purtroppo è solo una sensazione).

A piece which critically engages with DFW's essay, "E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction," an essay which I think is central to understanding DFW and yet each time I've read it, most recently in its Both Flesh And Not incarnation, leaves me wondering if many of us DFWites have actually gotten around to understanding what he's saying there. So but this piece which I'll link to shortly, by Daniel Green and published over there at thereadingexperience, is the kind of critical engagement which is of the kind which it's time to get around to again once we can sweep aside all the biographical fallacies which have been recently nurtured by Max's book, I mean to say, to paraphrase Husserl, "To the Work itself!"

"Just Plain Doomed"
by Daniel Green
Dec 2012

Ultimately I have to think that Wallace himself knew that as literary criticism/history this essay wouldn't stand up to serious scrutiny. Or perhaps he was so wary, as someone otherwise receptive to what was "neat and valuable" about "idealistic" postmodernism but also bathed in the noxious "cultural atmosphere" exuded by television, of succumbing to the debilitating irony of television he was not able to make these distinctions. Nevertheless, however much "E Unibus Pluram" might provide us insights into Wallace's intentions as a fiction writer, it doesn't really provide many insights into the actual nature and history of postmodernism.

http://noggs.typepad.com/thereadingex...

[and to be relevant, I wonder what the analysis contain in DFW's essay would imply in regard to the common readerly ironic perspective from which many Reviews on goodreads are written. the irony which DFW might characterize as insufferable in his "E Unibus" essay feels rather rampant on goodreads]



_____________
And so but a goodwill-type store yesterday provided me, for the low low price of US$2.99, with a 1st/1st of this delectable collectifacation of DFW lore. It is in acceptable, but not brilliant, condition. Will they have 1st/1st's next week of Broom and Girl at lower-than-Walmart prices too?