*A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again*

This is not much of a review, but rather me jotting down some of my thoughts on the titular essay.

It’s probably strange that when I read this essay, what I felt was a lot of sadness and grief. Even when I chuckled, the sadness lurkded somewhere in my unconsciousness.

I sometimes feel awfully embarrassed by how much emotion I experience when I read. In this instance, it’s a freaking essay about a luxury cruise that I was reading, not some tear-jerking work of fiction (which rarely manages to induce any tears in me if there is heavy-handed emotional manipulation). This time, I actually felt embarrassed for the embarrassment, too, as I once promised myself that I would stop feeling bad or embarrassed about my abundant emotions.
Now I do wonder if that’s one of the reasons I like DFW so much. You see, I do get his self-consciousness (in this particular essay e.g., the part about ordering cabin service, the part about being perceived as one of the “bovine” American tourists, etc.).

I started feeling sad after I read his discussion on despair and his association of the ocean with dread and death (the part he predicted would be cut by the editor).

“There is something about a mass-market luxury cruise that’s unbearably sad. 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.”

I mean, this is probably one of the saddest things I have ever read, especially considering how DFW ended his own life.

Then I felt sadder realizing how much he must have craved authenticity and sincerity, and how the lack of it caused him despair (e.g., the Frank Conroy essaymercial and the “badness” in its deceptive placement, the “pampering” from the cruise staff and its lack of genuine care).
* The essaymercial part reminds me of the political pundits or certain pseudointellectuals,who under the pretence of disseminating opinions, are actually running a business. And the badness of such lies cannot be underestimated. It also causes despair.

Another thing that stood out for me was how alienated he must have felt during the whole ordeal. (Yes, I am using the word “ordeal.” When even the flushing of the toilet seemed so sinister and caused existential dread, it can’t be anything other than an ordeal.) He remained an outsider and observer, the only one seeing through the infantilizing farce in a crowd of vacationers; he alone didn’t have a camera. How did it feel to be in his shoes on that ship? Or how did it feel to be *him*, experiencing alienation and existential dread at levels regular people could not begin to comprehend?
Yes, thinking about that also made me sad.

I loved reading this essay, despite how sad it made me feel. I still feel the same way as when I read Infinite Jest; reading DFW is like listening to a beloved friend talk, and I’d listen to this friend talk about just anything.

Oh and of course, I, someone who has never really considered going on cruises, will never go on cruises, however luxurious, after this essay.

*E UNIBUS PLURAM television and U.S. fiction *
DFW starts his essay by examining fictional writers’ nature as watchers and observers (voyeurs), who generally hate to be watched themselves , and TV seems to be great in that it does a lot of “ predatory research “ for them and they can remain watchers in front of TV. though watching TV is different than the “voyeurism” ( loved this discussion:
“This self-conscious appearance of unself-consciousness is the real door to TV’s whole mirror-hall of illusions, and for us, the Audience, it is both medicine and poison.”)
It then goes on to discuss the futility of the current criticism of TV (“What explains the pointlessness of most published TV criticism is that television has become immune to charges that it lacks any meaningful connection to the world outside it.”, “Those of us born in, say, the ’60s were trained by television to look where it pointed, usually at versions of “real life” made prettier, sweeter, livelier by succumbing to a product or temptation. Today’s mega-Audience is way better trained, and TV has discarded what’s not needed. A dog, if you point at something, will look only at your finger.”)
The next section talks about Metafiction and TV : “the nexus where television and fiction converse and consort is self-conscious irony.”
(Some quotes that I particularly loved from this section:
“Television is the way it is simply because people tend to be extremely similar in their vulgar and prurient and dumb interests and wildly different in their refined and aesthetic and noble interests. It’s all about syncretic diversity: neither medium nor Audience is faultable for quality.”
“Despite the unquestioned assumption on the part of pop-culture critics that television’s poor old Audience, deep down, “craves novelty,” all available evidence suggests, rather, that the Audience really craves sameness but thinks, deep down, that it ought to crave novelty. “
“Joe Briefcase needs that PR-patina of “freshness” and “outrageousness” to quiet his conscience while he goes about getting from television what we’ve all been trained to want from it: some strangely American, profoundly shallow, and eternally temporary reassurance.”)
The discussion then goes to the pop imagery in fiction. Loved the quote and analysis of White Noise.
(“The use of Low references in a lot of today’s High literary fiction, on the other hand, serves a less abstract agenda. It is meant (1) to help create a mood of irony and irreverence, (2) to make us uneasy and so “comment” on the vapidity of U.S. culture, and (3) most important, these days, to be just plain realistic.”)
The final sections on image-fiction or post-postmodernism and irony are the part I like and resonate with the most ( though tbh I liked all of what he wrote and I probably highlighted 1/3 of the 60 page essay )
(“Irony has only emergency use. Carried over time, it is the voice of the trapped who have come to enjoy their cage.”)
I mostly agreed on his stance on irony, however, what really resonated with me the most is the following part:
“Anyone with the heretical gall to ask an ironist what he actually stands for ends up looking like an hysteric or a prig. And herein lies the oppressiveness of institutionalized irony, the too-successful rebel: the ability to interdict the question without attending to its subject is, when exercised, tyranny. It is the new junta, using the very tool that exposed its enemy to insulate itself.”
“What do you do when postmodern rebellion becomes a pop-cultural institution? For this of course is the second answer to why avant-garde irony and rebellion have become dilute and malign. They have been absorbed, emptied, and redeployed by the very televisual establishment they had originally set themselves athwart.”
This reminds me of some of the discussions I had with friends after watching the movie The Lobster byYorgos Lanthimos,, which I consider a (primarily) metaphor of the tyranny of the convention and the establishment as well as that of the anti-establishment/ the rebellion ( once it reaches a certain point it becomes “anti-establishment as the establishment” and can be as oppressive). We see it too often in artistic movements: the once avant- guard would inevitably become the old school that stifles.
“Real rebels, as far as I can see, risk disapproval.”
All this also reminds me of Win Wenders essay where he considers Wyeth a "radical" for defending realism when it was out of fashion as well as my own penchant for the artists who do their own thing and stay out of the conventions/ rebellions of the day.
( I typed this up sitting at an airport, it probably doesn’t even make sense, but I need to get it off my chest so the thoughts won’t haunt me during my flight lol)

* Getting Away From Already Pretty Much Being Away From It All*
Quote:
“Not so in the rural Midwest. Here you’re pretty much Away all the time. The land here is big. Pool-table flat. Horizons in every direction. Even in comparatively citified Springfield, see how much farther apart the homes are, how broad the yards—compare with Boston or Philly. Here a seat to yourself on all public transport; parks the size of airports; rush hour a three-beat pause at a stop sign. And the farms themselves are huge, silent, mostly vacant space: you can’t see your neighbor. Thus the vacation-impulse in rural IL is manifested as a flight- toward. Thus the urge physically to commune, melt, become part of a crowd. To see something besides land and corn and satellite TV and your wife’s face. Crowds out here are a kind of adult nightlight. Hence the sacredness out here of Spectacle, Public Event. High school football, church social, Little League, parades, Bingo, market day, State Fair. All very big, very deep deals. Something in a Mid-westerner sort of actuates at a Public Event. You can see it here. The faces in this sea of faces are like the faces of children released from their rooms. Governor Edgar’s state spirit rhetoric at the Main Gate’s ribbon rings true. The real Spectacle that draws us here is Us. The proud displays and the paths between them and the special-treat booths along the paths are less important than the greater-than-sum We that trudge elbow to elbow, pushing strollers and engaging in sensuous trade, expending months of stored-up attention. A neat inversion of the East-Coast’s summer withdrawal. God only knows what the West Coast’s like.”

* David Lynch Keeps His Head*

Really loved essay. David Lynch has been talked about a lot and several documentaries have been made about him/his art, however I still find DFW’s writing refreshing.
I might add more about this essay later, however, for now I want to say that I find this bit extremely interesting:
“For me, Lynch’s movies’ deconstruction of this weird “irony of the banal” has affected the way I see and organize the world. I’ve noted since 1986 that a good 65% of the people in metropolitan bus terminals between the hours of midnight and 6:00 A.M. tend to qualify as Lynchian figures—flamboyantly unattractive, enfeebled, grotesque, freighted with a woe out of all proportion to evident circumstances.”
I find it interesting not only because I often times feel this way too at bus terminals ( not limited to those hours stated here though), but also because I have seen his way of “ organizing the world “ at work in his other essays in this collection and of course in Infinite Jest.

I feel a strange nervousness writing this review, not because of the fear of castigation (that, I must admit, thrills me), but because I now join the ranks of those who say things like: "over intellectualized diatribe" (this is out of context but still) "He's too clever for me I guess, because I was alienated from the writing." (this is somewhat jaded and sarcastic but still) " I found his writing a bit pretentious, and I just don't get the feeling he's being honest in the essays" (no qualifier) " Too pretentious, too dated, too verbose." - I agree with none of these things and I must admit it worries me that no-one who doesn't like it discusses any of the content much. Now I too will indulge in this to some extent.

The first essay, about youthful tennis exploits and the wind, instantly introduces a warm and personable tone. Tennis doesn't interest me particularly (though Wimbledon is the only sporting event you'll catch me watching any of, other than the world cup, and I couldn't stomach that if it was yearly) and this did nothing to change that but once it was done I was ready to move onwards and upwards (see? summarily dismissed.)

The second essay, on Television, I would say is probably the most interesting in that it is overtly and completely an essay of ideas rather than a piece of reportage. (short fumble with the book to make sure I say something germane) Whilst skipping over the criticisms that others have of this essay, namely that it's dated (what a bastard for engaging with an ever changing present, eh?), I would question the validity of his starting point: that television presents itself as an opportunity for voyeurism. After this he begins to talk about it as a tool to deal with loneliness, a more convincing idea, but I would argue that voyeurism would not give comfort to loneliness (by proffering a false togetherness) so much as imbue the enduring isolation with a feeling of power or purpose. Basically I would say that TV offers another form of (structured) noise which comforts and lulls and distracts whilst voyeurism focuses and distracts (I should know)but I don't - DFW also differentiates between voyeurism and Television watching but only after assuming the voyeuristic aspect is implicit. There were more quibbles with the essay but on many of the major points I would agree and since he articulated his ideas well and it takes a little while to actually put my objections into words I shall move on, but possibly return at a later date.


I'm getting rather wearied with this review for now so I shall simply say that The Illinois state fair essay was not particularly interesting to me and nor was the second tennis essay, though they were written well enough. I shall also leave the essay on literary theory and Hix to be dealt with later (maybe).

The Lynch essay then is where my problems largely lay, perhaps because my interest was fully engaged and I was aware of nearly everything referred to. Since this review is effectively justifying the two star rating i will mainly keep to the negative points about the essay, though the opportunity to read a long David Lynch essay, even one I disagree with, is appreciated. I might as well number my points since they are all glancing blows, I'll skim through the essay so as to be sure to bring up all quibbles in order
1) One of the few things David Lynch has done that I had not seen is 'on the air' which DFW says is terrible, I downloaded it promptly and watched the first episode which I found actually quite hilarious (maybe once you have heard Lynch talk about how silly his sense of humour is you're more forgiving) -in much the same way that he can be funny elsewhere but this time without the overwhelming tense feeling. This first point is not really a criticism, just thought it worth mentioning.
2) The big interpretive fork, as he calls it,for Lost Highway apparently consists of three options (1)literally real within the film (2)Kafkaesque metaphor (3)all hallucination or dream. Now i have firmly entrenched Lynch views and, to be fair to DFW, they are as much informed by the films since Lost Highway as those before but (1) is, of these, the only conceivable option for me, too often (most of the time) Lynch's films are treated as puzzles that must be assembled, or reduced to an accepted base level of reality when they should simply be accepted as whole and true (if accepted at all). The idea that (2) is an alternative reading to (1) is, to me, like saying that you can interpret (thinking of workable popular film example) the large sections of frolicking with animated creatures in Mary Poppins as either literally true or as a metaphor for the influence that children's credulity and creativity can have on adults (got a bad one). I essentially think it's insulting to suggest that (2) is anything other than an interpretation, whereas (1) is the truth. (Coherence rapidly fading.) (3) is not even worth considering, DFW says as much himself but it seems silly to even mention it you may as well add (4)it's all a film.
3)losing energy now so i will simply state that i disagree with his definition of Lynchian, i shall return to this. (I may now be skipping points because i have decided not to refer to the book but just briefly mention the things I can remember)
4) I never read Richard Pryor's appearance in Lost Highway as exploitative or designed to make you think of him in his prime. I was aware he had MS, he was in the film, his character owned a Garage which I didn't find inconceivable and I didn't find it painful to watch (was I unfeeling?).
5) He accuses people of refusing to distinguish between Lynch and his films but then goes on to refer to him as 'creepy' several times. He also says he wouldn't want to be his friend several times, leading me to suspect he was rebuffed. That's a joke but I do think
saying it more than once was a bit unnecessary
6)(and last for now) His whole thing about Lynch using his wife's painting in the film, deeming it strange (possibly just 'creepy' again). Partly because he suspects it might be about their daughter (I don't think it is but I don't really think it's relevant). This seems rather naive to me, for one the little poem (or suchlike) featured in it is quite funny, if also vaguely disturbing, and he also seems to fail to grasp that the woman was married to David Lynch, was an artist and probably (judging by the poem-thing) shared a lot of Lynch's sensibilities - making her work just a fitting thing to add to the mood, rather than a violation of a trust or a perverse use of personal totems - Lynch happens to have things that work in Lynch films as props.


This may all seem rather flimsy and like i can't stand any criticism of Lynch, I wouldn't say that's true I just happen to disagree with all of the above things.

The last essay was once again the type of thing that would be a veritable treat if come upon in a magazine but in the holy house of a book I didn't think it was hugely insightful or informative (it was pretty informative about the cruise ship and some of the people but nothing that I felt the need the dwell on afterwards). Oh, and was I the only one disappointed (if simultaneously relieved) that when he talked about going to play ping-pong on deck and then brought up the high winds he didn't bring it all full circle and talk about his triumph due to his tennis training in Illinois ?

In conclusion, he seems a pleasant fellow but I seem to have missed much of the humour and the huge-range of ideas, possibly i simply read about their presence too much. It was funny to the extent that if it was being related first hand to you you might, very often, smile gapingly and nod your head but I only ever laughed when he said he met 2 people called Balloon.

I will return to this review to cover the other essays and make it more level headed and clear.

I've read one DFW book - The Broom of the System - and I didn't much care for it. (Though I recently read that the author himself didn't like that one, so - vindication!) Imagine my amazement at how much I enjoyed this collection of essays. There's some clever and insightful commentary here. Wallace even managed to make a subject I have zero interest in - tennis - fascinating. (Well, truthfully, by the second article on the sport, my fascination was dwindling.)

Amid the forced joviality of a cruise ship vacation, Wallace notices There is something bovine about an American tourist in motion as part of a group. A certain greedy placidity to them. Us, rather.

and that

Men after a certain age simply should not wear shorts, I've decided; their legs are hairless in a way that's creepy; the skin seems denuded and practically crying out for hair, particularly in the calves. It's just about the only body-area where you actually want more hair on older men. Is this fibular hairlessness a result of years of chafing in pants and socks?

My favorite essay detailed a visit to the Illinois State Fair where Wallace was less than impressed by the carny folk. Here he brings on the snark big time:

The operator's 24 and from Bee Branch Arkansas, and has an earring and a huge tattoo of a motorcycle w/ naked lady on his triceps. He's been at this gig five years, touring with this one here same company here.

And:

All the carny-game barkers have headset microphones; some are saying "Testing" and reciting their pitches' lines in tentative warm-up ways. A lot of the pitches seem frankly sexual: "You got to get it up to get it in"; "Take it out and lay 'er down, only a dollar"; "Make it stand up. Two dollars five chances. Make it stand up." In the booths, rows of stuffed animals hang by their feet like game put out to cure. One barker's testing his mike by saying "Testes." It smells like machine grease and hair tonic down here, and there's already a spoiled garbagey smell.

Hmm . . . some things are best experienced through the pages of a book. So very glad he's done these "fun" things so I won't ever have to do them. Though, I could actually go for a funnel cake right now.

I may have to give this man's fiction another go.

DFW was entirely in his element when he was writing non-fiction. I’ve read 2 of his fiction books, including the magnum opus Infinite Jest, and while having enjoyed them both, I felt like something was clearly missing from them. That “something” is not missing in any of the essays published in “A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again”.

These essays are brilliance itself: they exude a passion for choosing the right words among an arsenal that’s larger even than that of many professional writers’. They engage your mind with acute and never once banal observations. They are written by a very-high-nervous-energy writer, which gives great vitality to the book. They are often really funny and lighthearted, in a way that makes DFW’s suicide even more bitter and sad to digest.

In the title essay, originally published in Harper's magazine as "Shipping Out", Wallace describes the excesses of his one-week trip in the Caribbean aboard the luxury cruise ship MV Zenith, which he rechristens the Nadir. He is uncomfortable with the professional hospitality industry and the "fun" he should be having, and explains how the indulgences of the cruise cause introspection, leading to overwhelming internal despair.

Like in Infinite Jest, Wallace uses footnotes extensively for various asides. And a weird phenomenon takes place: his “writing voice” in the footnotes actually changes. It becomes more colloquial, excited and invariably funnier than the voice he uses for the main body of the essay.

Another essay in the same volume takes up the vulgarities and excesses of the Illinois State Fair.

This collection also includes Wallace's influential essay "E Unibus Pluram" on television's impact on contemporary literature and the use of irony in American culture. I do not agree with his main thesis about TV having absorbed any potential revolutions by incorporating irony, because I think he approaches TV too much as if he was doing literary criticism. But who cares what I think? It’s a magnificent essay.

Then we have "Greatly Exaggerated" : A review of Morte d'Author: An Autopsy by H. L. Hix, including Wallace's personal opinions on the role of the author in literary critical theory. Very technical.

"David Lynch Keeps His Head" (1996). Wallace's experiences and opinions from visiting the set for the movie “Lost Highway” and his thoughts about Lynch's oeuvre. A ton of extremely insightful observations on tv fiction and on the work of David Lynch.

"Tennis Player Michael Joyce's Professional Artistry as a Paradigm of Certain Stuff about Choice, Freedom, Discipline, Joy, Grotesquerie, and Human Completeness" (1996): Wallace's reporting of the qualifying rounds for 1995 Canadian Open and the Open itself. As an amateurish tennis player myself, this is the essay that I’ve enjoyed the most. The fact that DFW was a very good tennis player makes his writing on this subject so engaging, funny and just exceptionally clever.

P.S. I’ve read this book in part from the physical book and in part — out of necessity due to my car commute to work — as audiobook. Didn’t like the reader’s voice in the least, unfortunately. Extremely nasal and not always in synch with Wallace.

Judging from the traffic tie-ups you see, I’m not the only one who slows down to gape at a car crash. The temptation would be even greater somewhere like Beverly Hills with a Ferrari involved. I suppose reading this book would fall under a similar rubric: gawking at a star betided by tragedy.

By nearly all accounts, mine and the MacArthur’s included, DFW was a genius. This is all the more obvious given the essay format—-a good way to highlight his gift.* He saw big pictures, as his social commentary and cultural critiques made clear. He could also drill down to subtle human quirks which, though remote, are still recognizable (after he pointed them out). I’m sure his genius extended beyond my comprehension of it, too, especially with his more philosophical musings.** Though one of his goals was to lead readers to “aha” moments of insight, he never talked down to anyone to get there.

The subjects were varied, covering topics like tennis (as a regionally ranked junior player he knew the sport well), television, the Illinois State Fair, literary theory, and cruise ship excursions. You get the feeling he could write about anything, though, and it would all be brilliant. He could vary his tone, too, alternating between professorial, sardonic, insightful, and funny. I guess in popular parlance you’d call him a hipster, but he seemed a little less edgy and a little more caring than others of that ilk. Now that I think about it, I shouldn’t even try to categorize such a multifaceted and unique individual.

One passage in the book struck me as particularly good. From what I’ve seen, it was one of his recurring themes. It has to do with irony and irreverence as a rhetorical mode. Turns out, fun as it may be for a time, he views it all as ultimately unfulfilling. With an ironist’s repertoire of criticism and destruction, there’s rarely anything constructive to “replace the hypocrisies it debunks.” Consistent with that, in an interview I just read he spoke disparagingly of all the arch, pomo attitude there is these days.

So why did he do it? To be honest I really didn’t read this looking for clues. It’s hard not to think of his fate, though, when he talked so honestly about despair, and fighting the urge to throw himself off the ship that he otherwise wrote so playfully about in the title piece. I suppose depression and bad chemistry were the clinical reasons, but it’s natural to wonder what within his outlook he might have revealed to tip his hand. Did he simply think too much and in increasingly inward ways? Was he too keenly aware of how different he was? Even his friends may not know. What I do know is that they miss him. That includes friends he never met; those he connected with through his works.

*We might also conclude that the essay format is a way to see the curse of his genius, too, with hints of alienation in a world of average intelligence and a hyper-awareness of flaws including his own.

**When an essay jumps right in saying that “In the 1960s the poststructuralist metacritics came along and turned literary aesthetics on its head by rejecting assumptions their teachers had held as self-evident and making the whole business of interpreting texts way more complicated by fusing theories of creative discourse with hardcore positions in metaphysics,” you know you’re in for a challenge.***

***You get really used to footnotes in a DFW essay. Maybe it’s just the way a really smart person’s mind works—-they can go on for hours with the asides their active noggins flit to, discursively disrupting the linear flow but in interesting ways. You get a lot of long sentences with him, too (I say hoping it's without irony as I flatter him with imitation in yet another nested aside).

Io e DFW non ci siamo piaciuti. C'est la vie...

I used to think I was pretty smart. I did the "gifted" program in elementary school, took advanced classes in high school, went to college, graduated with honors. Watched critically acclaimed films, read critically acclaimed novels, even took in the occasional play. Smart stuff. But mere months after graduation, I was plagued with worry and self-doubt. If I was really so smart, why wasn't I going places? Why did I feel so lost, so aimless, so adrift in adulthood? Why was I just "getting by" and no longer exceeding expectations?

Fact is, once you leave the safe harbor of formal schooling, there simply are no more expectations. There are no more instructors to impress, no more audiences to wow. The carefully constructed world of education turns out to be a lie, a proxy, a hall of mirrors. It's a sickening sensation that can very well drive you crazy, when you realize that you have to go it alone out there, by the seat of your pants, with no road map and no grading scale and no external carrots or sticks to motivate you or keep you on task.

*

This guy. This fucking Wallace guy. This guy who shows up and makes it all look easy, who writes circles—make that rectilinear perimetrics—around the competition. Sharp, precise, entertaining and thought-provoking. Crisp, clean, expansive.

I want to write like that. I want to BE like that.

*

Wallace and I have a lot in common. Both raised in Illinois, both spent time in Arizona. Both burdened with anxiety and substance abuse issues. Both overactive in the mind, always wondering and forever worrying what everything is about.

*

Wallace and I have nothing in common. He made big waves, I made not a splash. He became the voice of a generation, I am but an echo of other people's opinions.

He used his fame to hit on women. He stalked, he threatened, he objectified. I'm happily monogamous (at least, I am now - my ex-wife surely would say otherwise, and she'd be right).

He killed himself, I'm a suicide survivor.

I don't want to live like that. I don't want to BE like that.

He wrote books, but I brought flesh and blood children into this world. He inspired thousands superficially, I have two little ones to raise and provide for and love more deeply than anything. So I can't begrudge him his success, since we really weren't playing at the same game after all - and where our experiences DO overlap, by some accounts I'm the one who's come out ahead.

*

Wallace is a mirror and a cautionary tale. A tremendous talent, to be sure, but also a grave warning that talent isn't everything. An extraordinary success, but a reminder that the greatest success is found in mastering the ordinary. What Wallace does is to examine a small subject in minute, nitpicking detail (tennis, grammar, luxury cruise trips) and expand it to contain the whole universe of human experience. He is good at this, better than anyone else I'm aware of, and this skill is on display here with shocking clarity.

5 stars. Nearly perfect essay-writing from a grossly imperfect man.

Da non perdere: divertente, ironico, arguto. la cosa più bella di questo libro sono le note: una trovata geniale! E poi ho capito che una crociera proprio non fa per me: troppo claustrofobica.

Ironico e malinconico.
Le note sono impagabili.

Una settimana di Assolutamente Niente

"Ho sentito cittadini americani maggiorenni e benestanti che chiedevano all'Ufficio Relazioni con gli Ospiti se per fare snorkeling c'è bisogno di bagnarsi, se il tiro al piattello si fa all'aperto, se l'equipaggio dorme a bordo e a che ora è previsto il Buffet di Mezzanotte."

"Questo è il fatto. Una vacanza è una tregua dalle cose sgradevoli, e poiché la coscienza della morte e della decadenza è sgradevole, può sembrare strano che la più sfrenata fantasia americana in fatto di vacanze preveda che si venga schiaffati in mezzo a una gigantesca e primordiale macchina di morte e decadenza."

"Nella brochure della crociera, voi siete esonerati dalla fatica di costruire il sogno. Lo fa la pubblicità al posto vostro. La pubblicità, insomma, non manipola la vostra capacità d'azione, né la ignora: semplicemente, la sostituisce. E questo atteggiamento autoritario - simil-genitoriale - crea una promessa davvero speciale, una promessa diabolicamente seducente, che d'altra parte è quasi sincera, perché è una promessa che la crociera extralusso ha tutte le intenzioni di mantenere. La promessa non consiste nel fatto che avrete la possibilità di godervi la vacanza, ma che ve la godrete di sicuro. E loro si assicureranno che ciò accada."

Posso dire di aver chiuso un cerchio; o meglio: un triangolo. Andrea Pomella, per il suo L'uomo che trema, ammise di essere stato profondamente ispirato da Il male oscuro di Giuseppe Berto e il suddetto reportage narrativo stilato da David Foster Wallace durante la settimana dell'11-18 marzo 1995, a bordo della crociera extra-lusso Nadir.
Se l'opera di Berto è un flusso di coscienza di stampo autobiografico, dalla scrittura inarrestabile, che attraverso il narcisismo dell'auto-espiazione permette di librare la sofferenza a vette liriche di ineguagliata onestà (rimanendo divertente), Una cosa divertente che non farò mai più si tradisce maggiormente come autoptica analisi di un cinico nevrotico costretto al confinamento in un contesto a lui alieno.
E probabilmente le prime 30 pagine, dedite alla descrizione di quello che muove il contesto nei confronti dei vacanzieri, risultano le più affilate e a fuoco: come una macchina primordiale di morte, la crociera persegue la squadratura della tua esperienza attraverso un'organizzazione così metodica e coercitiva da ricordare i modellini di Perky Pat e Walt in Le tre stimmate di Palmer Eldrith, ove i coloni su Marte masticano droga di fronte a dei modellini per proiettarsi in un simulacro lisergico fatto di effimera spensieratezza. Ecco, gli involontari tagli distopici di inizio reportage restano i picchi massimi dell'intera lettura. La restante parte dello scritto di DFW, avvalendosi di una cascata bulimica di note che quasi fagocitano il testo scritto, in un tripudio esaltatorio dell'inutile, diventa più esercizio affabulatorio: meno riflessivo e maggiormente divertito nell'osservare il teatro dell'assurdo che si consuma davanti agli occhi del serafico DFW.
Il tutto raccontato con una padronanza tra sarcasmo e ironia che solo un ottimo narratore saprebbe sfoggiare senza eccedere nell'assillo.

(Da menzionare l'intero capitolo sull'opuscolo pubblicitario di Frank Conroy e l'aneddoto sulla moglie del capitano Scott Peterson; a seguire l'ubiquità dell'inserviente Petra e la dittatura ellenica sui poveri libanesi senza requia, ove a spadroneggiare è il losco Dermatitis.)

There are two essays on tennis. And I suspect his perspective on tennis is unique in the history of the world. It's when he's examining the micro mechanics of tennis that you realise just what a rare and perilous place his delicately tuned mind was. And just how interwoven are madness and genius.

He goes on a cruise and makes it seem like a dress rehearsal for a nursing home. A tightly formulated series of happy clapping rituals. Your desires not only anticipated and micromanaged but formulated for you. Rebellion would be required daily to genuinely have a good time. Not necessarily a bad starting state of mind when you awake of a morning. One thing's certain, a cruise would provide great material for a comic novel. For one thing it contains elements of a dystopian world. I'm surprised no one has ever written this novel. JG Ballard?

An agricultural fair provides a good deal of comedy. But his comedy is generally kind, rarely cruel. And boy is he brilliant at making you laugh!

There's an essay on television in which he argues it's futile to feel superior to television because television only pretends to be stupid. One of its directives to help its audience feel superior which is a feeling people like. I wasn't familiar with any of the programmes he mentions so a lot of this essay went over my head.

(I'm still mostly locked out of my account and can't make or reply to comments. Apologies.)

Great essays here; varying topics. A reader can definitely see the ones that DFW enjoyed writing most. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the tennis essays, when I have(had) no interest in the sport. My favorite was the Lynch essay.