senza titolo

Mi pare che vi siano innumerevoli maniere di prendere questo romanzo, di affrontarlo al principio e di valutarlo dopo la lettura.

Lo si può considerare un prototipo di Infinite Jest, tanti e tali sono le analogie, i personaggi de “La Scopa” che ne prefigurano altri di IJ, le invenzioni di stile e di contenuto, gli ambienti, le famiglie, la scelta dei nomi, eccetera, che sarebbe pressoché impossibile compilarne un elenco preciso. Si fa prima a fare il discorso inverso osservando che l’elemento che più differenzia le due opere è l’assenza in “La scopa” dell’enorme apparato di note, subnote, subsubnote presente in IJ. Che non è solo una ricercatezza di stile ma induce ad una modalità di lettura completamente diversa.

Oppure si può procedere a partire dal senso di ammirato stupore per l’esordio di un autore ventiquattrenne già in grado di mettere in piedi un’architettura narrativa di tale complessità, precisione, talento innovativo, torrente di idee, suggestioni, situazioni, invenzioni da togliere il fiato e da sembrare, più che un’opera prima, la summa di un autore giunto all’apice della propria capacità creativa: un testo e uno stile quasi imprescindibili nella narrativa alla fine e, mi sbilancio, a coronamento di un secolo che pure di geni letterari ne ha profusi in grande quantità.

Un’altra modalità di approccio (alludo sempre sia alla disposizione mentale del lettore a pagina 1, sia a quella retrospettiva di chi è arrivato alla “fine”, posto che quest’ultima parola mai come qui appaia deliberatamente destituita di significato…) è l’impegno ad un’analisi razionale delle principali fondamenta dell’opera, la ricerca di uno o più bandoli della rete intricata che Wallace lascia lungo il percorso. E’ la strada scelta con coraggio da Bartezzaghi, nella sua prefazione al romanzo, che personalmente ho trovato pregevole meravigliandomi assai per le numerose critiche che ha suscitato: molte fra le osservazioni del prefatore aggiungono valore e interessanti itinerari all’approfondimento della conoscenza di un autore e in particolare di un’opera talmente sfaccettata.

L’ultima scelta (ma in realtà ce ne sarebbero altre) è quella che sempre ci resta nei confronti di espressioni artistiche che sembrano trascendere le nostre capacità di completa assimilazione: l’abbandonarsi alla corrente di un magma che contiene frammenti inafferrabili e non collocabili, ma anche perle di grande valore come il racconto “Amore”, incastonato fra i demenziali prodotti della fantasia distorta di Rick Vigorous oppure il personaggio di Lavache nel (troppo) breve intermezzo di metà romanzo che lo vede in primo piano.

Il povero lettore qualunque può oscillare fra l’uno o l’altro di questi sentieri, purché conservi la consapevolezza (pena cocenti delusioni) che non ha senso attendersi uno sbocco rassicurante e definitivo, così come non ha senso domandarsi come sia possibile avere concluso “La scopa del sistema” senza averne mai raggiunto, spiegato, udito direttamente la nonnina protagonista; non avere compreso nell’ultima riga se R.V. si consideri un uomo di parola o un uomo di merda; non avere colto cosa accade a Lenore nel crescendo del penultimo capitolo dove il suo silenzio sempre più assoluto fa da inquietante contrappunto al baccano di tutti o quasi i personaggi ritrovati nella stessa stanza come in una comica finale o in una commedia degli errori…

D’altra parte io stesso non saprei proprio come esprimere in altro modo la

David è uno spasso, davvero. Per quanto ci siano evidenti riferimenti a stati depressivi e disagi affini, lo stile di Wallace non è angoscioso, anzi, è brillante, è vivo.
Io ho riso, ma proprio tanto. E io sono una di quelle che a guardare Paperissima si deprime.
E' divertente, nella sua tristezza; qualunque situazione acquisisce, attraverso la sua voce, una connotazione particolare. Che più il momento è tragico, più lui te lo rigira in un modo irresistibile. Paradossi narrativi che spiazzano e conquistano.
Mi si spezza il cuore a pensare che un autore così geniale non scriverà mai più; mi dispiace sapere di avere una bibliografia finita e definita da poter consultare; è una mancanza, quella che sento, verso i libri che non ci sono mai stati e mai ci saranno.

continua qui: http://startfromscratchblog.blogspot....

I sure wasted a lot of time in college is all I can say. All in all, not a bad PoMo novel from a undergraduate senior thesis. Some ideas didn't seem to be finished, or put away, but that also seems to be a familiar theme in DFW's work. Not my favorite DFW, but I'd still prefer most days to read mediocre DFW to good/great anyone else.

This book is a complete treasure for fans of David Foster Wallace. Here, in the honors thesis he wrote as an undergraduate student, we bear witness to the beginning stages of the thematic content (entertainment; consumerism; meaning; raw, gooey sentimentality) and literary style (philosophical, clever, post-modern) that would ultimately evolve into his masterpiece, Infinite Jest.

Inspired by Wittgenstein, The Broom of the System is — in the simplest terms — about language, meaning and identity. The book’s young heroine, Lenore Beadsman, is experiencing somewhat of a crisis of all three of these things. If, as Wittgenstein proposes, meaning is function, Lenore’s function (and therefore her meaning and her sense of self) is ill-defined. In fact, she feels as if she’s more or less being controlled by the people in her life — her grandmother, her father, her neurotic boyfriend and even her therapist.

In typical David Foster Wallace style, The Broom of the System is eccentric and inventive in format. He doesn’t just tell a straight-forward story. No. This is about language, after all, what fu would that be? Alongside the more traditional narrative, he incorporates things like therapy session transcripts and excerpts from fictional stories written by one his characters.

And it’s clever. And it’s absurd. And it’s stimulating. And it’s hilarious. David Foster Wallace makes you work for what you’re reading. He challenges you to remember all of his characters and the clever little details that he plants along the way. But the brilliant thing is that it doesn’t actually feel like work.

I loved this book. I love David Foster Wallace. I’m going to end this review, but before I do, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention one of the best characters in the book. Vlad the Impaler, Lenore’s loquacious cockatiel, alternately quotes only two things: Bible passages and lines from Lenore’s roommate’s sexually charged break-up speech to her boyfriend. I’m laughing just thinking about it.

Praticamente questo libro è la “parola” nella sua immensa varietà. Parola che può farsi racconto, romanzo, nonsense, parabola, metafora, suggestione, gioco, analisi, invenzione, descrizione, silenzio, menzogna, imitazione.

Francamente, non ci ho capito granché e dubito che lo rileggerò mai, ma, per questa volta, non mi è spiaciuto averlo fatto. E magari non c’è proprio niente da capire, a parte il fatto che sconfiggere il caos, generato anche verbalmente, è impossibile.

Can a person be obsessed with a book? throughout my reading of The Broom of the System, all I did was think about, find extra time to read it and I stayed up late and woke up early to read it. Now that I've finished it, I'm constantly thinking about it.

Plot??? well to put in simple terms. The inhabitants of a nursing home disappear and Lenore Beadsman has to look for her.

As this is David Foster Wallace there's a lot more> Wittgenstein's philosophy, commentaries about the state of fiction, college life and telephone switchboards are all discussed. Surprisingly, although DFW is compared to Thomas Pynchon - and there are elements, especially the zany scenes, circular sub plots and use of dialogue, he is never dense. In fact Broom is a readable novel if you have enough time to invest in it. I also laughed out loud at certain scenes - something I didn't expect.

I guess I should read Infinite Jest again.

It was the tree frog story. The story about the Thermos woman who is always in profile, hiding under scarves and out of the way of all human connections. It was the tree frog that lived in the hole in her neck, and he through holes in the scarves around her neck. The tree frog that she nurtured and resented. Symbiotic amphibiotics. That was a part of her and yet not apart of her. This whole other not self thing that kept herself out of everything else. And the tree frog can only blink sadly, and I guess wait for whatever it is she's going to do out of her very complicated feelings. Or it can sing out of its control and be helpless to connections too. When Thermos woman dies on the train and the tree frog finds the man who couldn't help but fall in love with everything. He blinks at him. And they are both sad and at a total loss about connecting to anyone else.

The whole thing about reality and stories, knowing anyone else. Being fucked up about not having such a good grip on those things. So I already knew this about myself, pretty much. But this is a book about those things that feels like being the one to blink back sadly and so it is much, much better than knowing it. It is being caught between wanting to stay shut in your apartment all of your time feeding your own tree frog bits of food off your fork. Or maybe cutting it off for good. I know I really, really don't want to do the cutting off for good option. I hope that never happens. The Broom of the System did its sad chirrup song to that part of my soul that aches for the looking back sadly. That's something I suspect about myself. That what I really want is to have that in between part, like it's a story, rather than the whole connected part by itself (does anyone have that? Or do they only want it?). The someone else's tree frog. If there's a connection you can get out of knowing about THAT part of someone. That's what I want and I think stories are one of the ways to get it. And if it's not a story you could make stories out of it. If Lenore had learned out to make stories herself she might have felt less stuck in other people (maybe subtextual instead of just sexual).

I would have loved this book forever for the toad story all by itself. I love this book. Not only for that but I know I'm not going to forget that one. My heart did that thing where it beat slower and faster at the same time. I said "Oh" to myself. There's so much more and it all read to me like telling me stories in that getting unstuck way. I'm a sensitive little fucker, really (gasp!), and that's exactly what I like to sit around and do. What I like to do is get sensitive and sit there and ponder shit about people in books like they are real. Then I take that shit and make people who are real into not real and so on. So I totally get the dilemna that Lenore had about how to be real. Wait, or is she resenting those of us that do the story making up? Nooo, we have no control! Come back, Lenore!

I was getting desperate for Lenore to dump Rick by the end, too. When I say desperate I mean that I squirmed in my seat and sighed a lot. I'd put the book down and sigh some more (it's all that damned Rick's fault). I would have said totally different things to him in those therapy sessions than Dr. Jay did. (I love the conversations like these that make me start to have my own conversations.)

Lavache, aka The Antichrist, I didn't particularly care for. That and when Lenore cries for the first time ever in front of anyone were direct telling without the complicated space you have to figure out for yourself. Nooooo, but I live for subtext and undertones! I tried not to read reviews again before writing mine because I had a feeling the complaints weren't going to be the same. I really just got frustrated like Lavache was the wrong kind of mouth piece. I lost interest in Lenore. I couldn't get enough of Bloemker and his blow up doll, going to the desert to wander and lost bars.

Hey, you know what I always loved about reviews of David Foster Wallace books on goodreads? The "This part was written just for me" reviews. I don't want to say what mine are out loud because they would then sound cheesey (the cockatiel one is easy to guess by anyone who knows me here) and not goosebumpy personal. Then if anyone demanded to know and I gave in they would sound even weaker because I made a big deal about not telling right now (just be content with cockatiels! And I love that Vlad the Impaler had a "mohawk". One of mine is Lester because he has Lester Young crest. I never thought of a mohawk, amazingly enough). I read in my favorite The Broom of the System review that DFW was hard on himself for writing himself in as Lenore. Noooo, that's perfect! That means he's us too. Sensitive and thinks too much. I wouldn't want it any other way. And I am unbelievably grateful to him for that because there are lots of times when I want it another way and it sucks to be so sensitive. (Damn, does that mean that I can relate a bit to Rick too? Um.... no?)

Although, I think I would have dumped Lenore, too, and looked for the bad typists who penned those stories. We'd run away. I'd be the toad and blink. And then I'd get blinked at.

The best part is that there is no last word.

P.s. If I haven't said so already, I love David Foster Wallace. All I want to do is read and I'm going to give my thanks to you. (Run away with me!)

P.s.s. (The review in my head was way better than this one. Forgot what I was gonna say, again.)

Случайно выяснилось, что первый роман Уоллеса я, оказывается, уже читал — видимо, когда он только вышел, — но сила воздействия его была такова, что я о нем напрочь забыл. Второй заход оказался удачнее. Книжка это вполне забавная и развлекательная в некоторых частностях и кунштюках — только очень длинная. Проблема начинающего писателя-студента была явно в том, что он «никак не мог кончить», хотя на все, что там можно было сказать по существу, хватило бы и четверти ее финального объема.
Больше всего «Метла» напоминает сплющенных Бартелми и Гэддиса в одном флаконе. Пинчона — нет, не напоминает, как ни пыжься. Ну а после Бартелми и Гэддиса что-то новое сказать в деле производства постмодернистских повествовательных трюков уже довольно сложно, хотя роман не то чтоб совсем уж подражательный (хоть и не без этого, но будем считать это оммажем). Мудрости и метаисторической глубины ему, понятно, тоже недостает — писал его, как ни верти, студент, хоть и вундеркинд. Как таковой — и исключительно как таковой — роман вполне хорош.
А причина моей забывчивости может оказаться в том, что Уоллес — автор очень холодный и рассудочный, души Бартелми и гуманизма и страсти Пинчона и реализма Гэддиса (если уж сравнивать) в нем нет. Ну и кроме того — сильно ушиблен Виттгенштейном. По его собственному утверждению, «Метла» может читаться как «диалог Виттгенштейна и Дерриды», но проблема в том, что для воссоздания такого гипотетического диалога вовсе не требуется 600 страниц. Достаточно было бы и двадцати — по большому счету, сказать этим двум торговцам воздухом друг другу было нечего, а мы бы и так все поняли.
Но роман Уоллеса, я полагаю, как раз в этом смысле задачу свою выполняет, поскольку он весь — о том, как забалтывается реальная жизнь, подменяется техно- и психо-болтовней, живые человеческие отношения заменяются на нескончаемые разговоры об «отношениях», и сама жизнь тихонько подыхает в углу от скверно усвоенных (ибо неусвояемых) умозрительных конструкций «философов» и разных гуру духовного роста. Сами слова при этом, стоит ли говорить, обесцениваются. Вот такую жеваную промокашку из симулякров и представляет собой «Метла системы». Сами решайте, актуально ли это для вас сейчас.

This book flat-out demands a multi-layered meta-review. I mean, it has everything a po-mosexual could ask for: characters aware they might be characters in a novel, nested short stories read by the characters that comment on the parent text, an intentionally unresolved and fractured plot, pages and pages of ironic philosophical dialogue, and an ending that just

Unfortunately, that level of post-modern detachment requires real talent, the talent of, say, David Foster Wallace. Yet DFW famously criticized this, his debut novel, as reading like the work of a hyper-literate 14-year-old. Maybe. 14-year-olds aren't generally known for their restraint and this book includes everything, whether it works or not. The thing is, an astonishing amount of it does work, provided, of course, you are into this sort of thing. It is very much of a muchness: an evangelical talking parrot, a global conspiracy involving baby food, missing senior citizens, secret chemical formulas, childhood sexual obsession, mirages in a man-made desert, a fat man occupying infinite space, a character named Wang Dang Lang. You have to just go with it. It helps that it is really, really funny. Don't let the pout and that stupid bandanna (and, you know, the tragic way he died) fool you: DFW was a funny man.

This review in inadequate. But it is aware of that fact. Onto Infinite Jest! I have a feeling this was just a warm-up.

Ne ho parlato (finalmente!) qui: https://youtu.be/r_ZsjB9Znpk

https://www.vintagestories.gr/i-skoup...

Η σκούπα και το σύστημα, του David Foster Wallace, ένα βιβλίο που περίμενα με μεγάλη ανυπομονησία να κυκλοφορήσει στα ελληνικά· μια ιδιόμορφη φάρσα για την αμερικανική κοινωνία της δεκαετίας του 90, τοποθετημένη σε ένα πολυμορφικό ψηφιδωτό ανθρώπινων συμπεριφορών.

Το μυθιστόρημα που γράφτηκε μόλις στα 23 χρόνια του, προσέφερε στο αναγνωστικό κοινό, μια πρωτότυπη λογοτεχνική φόρμα, απομακρυσμένη από το ρεαλισμό που επικρατούσε μέχρι τότε. Κείμενα με καταρρακτώδη μυθιστορηματική ανάπτυξη, εσωτερικούς μονολόγους και πολλές διαφορετικές οπτικές γωνίες ταυτόχρονα, ήταν κάποια από τα χαρακτηριστικά της σύγχρονης γραφής του.

Τα πολλά και διαφορετικά κεφάλαιά του εξ΄αιτίας της πληθώρας των χαρακτήρων, του τόπου, του χρόνου και της διαρκούς εναλλαγής τους ενώ ενθουσιάζουν, μπορεί και να κουράσουν κάποιους αναγνώστες. Όμως, πέρα από αυτά η εξερεύνηση κάθε μικρής ιστορίας του μας ενεργοποιεί ως αναγνώστες. Και έτσι σύντομα το βιβλίο αποκτά δεύτερη έννοια, κάτι σαν λογοτεχνική εκγύμναση. Στις 576 σελίδες του, μας δοκιμάζει σε κάθε είδους λογοτεχνική φόρμα, είδη αφηγητή, περιγραφής αλλά και δόμησης του λόγου, μια πλούσια τοιχογραφία με κωμικοτραγικό και ταυτόχρονα γκροτέσκο χαρακτήρα.

Συνέχεια > https://www.vintagestories.gr/i-skoup...

Is it okay to really like a novel without knowing what the hell it's about? Because this is the problem I'm having with the late David Foster Wallace's "The Broom of the System". Ostensibly, it seems to be about a young woman named Lenore Beardsman, who goes to visit her grandmother (also Lenore Beardsman) at the nursing home only to find that her grandmother, including 22 other residents and staff, have disappeared without a trace, just vanished overnight. Believe me when I tell you that this is least weird part of the novel. There is also (in order of appearance) a man obsessed with becoming infinitely fat, a cockatoo that can suddenly speak volumes, a city whose borders are in the shape of Jayne Mansfield, a man-made desert in the middle of Ohio, a baby-food magnate who is conducting secret pineal-gland experiments with the food in order to create a race of super-intelligent super-babies, Lenore's neurotic and extremely jealous boyfriend Rick Vigorous, and a smoking-hot guy named Lang on the run from his perfect suburban life who may or may not have had a one-night stand with Lenore in college. Don't ask me how any of it ties together, because I don't know. I don't really care, either, because it doesn't detract from the extreme pleasure I received from reading this book. Wallace was an extremely gifted, funny, intelligent, and surrealist writer who left a handful of fantastic writings before his untimely passing. Reminiscent of the writings of Kurt Vonnegut and Thomas Pynchon, Wallace's writing could best be described as stream-of-consciousness sci-fi philosophical satire. Whatever you choose to call it, though, it's just great writing.