Δεν θέλω να γράψω κάτι για το βιβλίο αλλά ο DFW υπήρξε μεγάλος συγγραφέας και αυτό γίνεται σαφές και από αυτό το βιβλίο!

PORTRAIT OF AN INFINITE JESTER AS A YOUNG MAN

You will see it. A dream dreamt and a dream realized. With this book, my small journey is complete (in a way) and I witnessed (in a small way) what went in the making of Infinite Jest. Let me draw the conclusion in broad brushstrokes. The Broom of the System + Girl with Curious Hair is NOT equal to Infinite Jest but a jest that was beginning to take shape in a mind, which in my eyes was capable of achieving anything. What David wanted to do was crack. A Joke. He did it. With a Big Explosion. And this is where it all began, at least for us readers. As always, it’s hard to define his books and Broom is no different. It has Wallace’s favorite props - A dysfunctional family, communication gaps, personal daddies, tunnels, distant future and Transcripts. For a moment if we forget that this was his debut novel, that he was just a 24 going on 25 graduate student when this book came out, it doesn’t take away anything from the fact that this book is an example of fiction writing at its best. It’s not flawless but happily rejoices in its imperfection and dance to the rhythm of words. Although it’s a work of a young man, the portrait it presents us with is an endearing one, where we become audience to the building of a road that leads to infinity.

WALLACE, WITTGENSTEIN AND WORDS

This is not a bad thing when I say that I indulge some books a lot more than others and when it comes to Wallace, I go out of my way in getting myself acquitted with his aspirations, inspirations and basic motives behind his each written word. I gave it 4 stars initially but now it’s a 5 star and deservedly so. I don’t read neat philosophies and different concepts ensued from them. I’m not an ideal candidate for it. I need analogies to understand certain things and that’s where writers like Wallace interest me. They are a medium for mounting and satiating curiosities and finally help in reaching a level of understanding about things I never really care for. Wittgenstein’s principles. Derrida’s theories of language. It was all Greek for me but when Wallace said this about The Broom of the System: the book can be viewed as a dialogue between Wittgenstein and Derrida, it was enough to intrigue me about these Gentlemen. This book is a hide n seek game and the object of desire is Gramma, Lenore Stonecipher Beadsman, a former student of Ludwig Wittgenstein.

n  …she studied classics and philosophy and who knows what else under a mad crackpot genius named Wittgenstein, who believed that everything was words. Really. If your car would not start, it was apparently to be understood as a language problem. If you were unable to love, you were lost in language. Being constipated equalled being clogged with linguistic sediment. n

In this game, there are For and Against teams. For Team: Lenore Beadsman, Gramma’s great granddaughter. Same names and a lot of confusion. Against Team: Rick Vigorous, Lenore’s employer and an obsessive, possessive, impotent lover. There’s a mediator/umpire too. A mad psychiatrist and the funniest of the lot (For the record, this book is mad funny). They all constitute the ‘system’ and we just need to figure out, who is the ‘broom’ among them. Small things point towards bigger questions about identity, the relevance of language and the nature of control in our lives. Wallace has taken liberties in playing with certain philosophies and concluded that…HA! This book has loose ends too but not nearly as frustrating as IJ, so you can conclude whatever you want to. Just keep a watch on the words.

STORIES WITHIN THE STORIES WITHIN THE STORIES

Probably the best part of this book is the numerous stories told by Rick Vigorous to Lenore Beadsman. They all are surreal, ingenious, crazy, improbable and fascinating, but most importantly, they carry that unmistaken seal of David’s style and meta most importantly, they carries out David’s commentary about the art of writing fiction, especially by the young writers. The thing about his writing which I really like - there’s always something 'more' I wish for. 'And then what happened?' was a pet question I carried throughout this book. Sometimes he answers and sometimes he comes to an abrupt end. He teases and pleases at the same time and dammit! I love him for that. And for all those who love him or planning to do so, just read this Bill Katovsky’s article if you haven’t: http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/da...

Fiction either moves mountains or it’s boring; it moves mountains or it sits on its ass.

A sweep of the broom and the mountains moved.

If my first novel were this good, I'd be tempted to pull a Harper Lee and let that one beautiful work be monument enough to my prowess as both a wordsmith and a storyteller.

This is a hard nut to crack. I decided long ago I needed to read old David Foster Wallace, and I wasn't feeling committed to the 1100 page chore of "Infinite Jest." As far as I can tell, he draws on three American literary traditions: the first is the American hysterical realist tradition that it helped to found (see DeLillo, Franzen), the second being the batshit tradition beloved by smart 18 year olds (see Vonnegut, Robbins), and the third being Thomas Pynchon, who is his own wonderful, babbling creature. Pay special attention to this last one. Throughout, Wallace robs the Pynchon playbook, from grandiose governmental schemes to novel last names to abstruse nostalgia for the present. And for the first 100 pages or so, it succeeds. But then, Lenore Beadsman's misadventures in the both real and metaphorical deserts surrounding Cleveland cease to be amusing and start to become painfully dull and predictable. Wallace is clearly a talented voice, but he needs to get his shit together... or maybe he did 15 years ago and I just didn't know it.

"Non limitatevi a guardare; pensate a come guardare; forse quello che vedete...significa l'opposto di ciò che credete significhi, di ciò che ... sembra".

Mi risulta molto difficile parlare di David Foster Wallace, perché è uno scrittore che apprezzo e venero moltissimo. Dopo essermi innamorata di "Infinite jest" e dei suoi racconti, ho avuto una vera e propria folgorazione per "La scopa del sistema" di cui è molto complicato descrivere e raccontare la trama che credo sia secondaria rispetto a tutte le varie tematiche e simbolismi presenti.
Le parole che Wallace usa sono perfette, ognuna incasellata al posto giusto al momento giusto. Credo che qualsiasi parola sarebbe superflua, perché non sarebbe sufficiente a descrivere il genio e la sregolatezza che permea questo racconto nel racconto, queste storie nelle storie.
Il fatto che lo abbia scritto all'età di 24 anni è l'esatta rappresentazione di un uomo che avrebbe potuto ancora dare molto al mondo e soprattutto alla letteratura.

От рубриката "'Не разбирам защо тази моментна класика я нямаме вече 30 години на български".

Нещо като Бял шум на ДеЛило, но надграждащо и различно. Което си е истинско постижение за автор на 24-годишна възраст.

Allora. Parce sepulto, diceva quello. E io lo parco il sepulto, eccome se lo parco. La prima volta che ho sentito parlare di David Foster Wallace è stata quando è morto. Prima, mai. E per qualche giorno mi era sembrato che non averlo letto - dai, non hai letto Infinite Jest? E neanche La scopa del sistema? - fosse una terribile colpa da espiare al più presto. Insomma, devo confessare che ero un po' preoccupato: questo signore americano qua, un mezzo genio mezzo drogato mezzo alcolizzato mezzo depresso mezzo matto, si è suicidato a quarantasei anni nella mia più totale inconsapevolezza. Un tarlo lo divorava dall’interno, hanno scritto i migliori coccodrillisti, e io felice e contento, indifferente ai suoi drammi. Che vergogna. Per espiare sono corso in libreria e ho preso un suo libro a caso – Oblio – perché di solito faccio così: quando voglio iniziare un autore o parto cronologicamente o parto con un libro a caso. A rifletterci bene, non è che ci siano altri modi, ma mi piace pensare di mettere in pratica sagaci strategie. Sono tornato a casa, ho letto un racconto, forse due, al limite tre, e mi sono detto che no, non ero pronto per la superba scrittura del maestro contemporaneo. Nel frattempo la moda DFW un po’ è scemata. Gli articoli celebrativi sono diminuiti e insomma, il nostro genio è stato un po’ meno considerato. Ma sempre genio è rimasto: le poche righe apparse qua e là sulla stampa tenevano in gran considerazione la sua opera. Per tacere, poi, delle recensioni entusiaste dei lettori su forum, blog e social network. Allora sono io, mi sono detto. Avrò sbagliato libro, ho provato a spiegarmi. Qua bisogna tentare di nuovo, mi sono convinto. Stavolta parto in ordine, ho infine deciso. Ho preso in mano La scopa del sistema, ben consapevole di trovarmi di fronte all’opera struggente di un formidabile genio, e mi sono lasciato andare. Sarebbe stato meglio se mi fossi messo a leggere le possenti riflessioni di Christian Raimo. Non ce la faccio, proprio non capisco DFW. Una storia insulsa che nemmeno c’è, personaggi abbozzati, accennati, lasciati a metà. Artifici verbali a gogò, che poi diventano solo verbosità artificiale. Bisogna sospendere l’incredulità, e spesso pure la noia. Fuori c’è un bel sole, in tv c’è la Premier League, le figlie chiamano, la moglie pure. Ma chi me lo fa fare a me? Un libro mi deve prima di tutto divertire. E per divertirmi deve soddisfare due condizioni principali: ci deve essere una storia e lo scrittore deve comparire il meno possibile. Qua la storia… tu c’hai capito qualcosa? E il narratore è onnipresente, ok DFW sei bravo bravissimo, però spostati, lèvati, ho capito che ci tieni tanto a mostrarmi quanto sia bello e forte e figo, fammi leggere il libro però. Non hai capito, dice quello, DFW scrive una storia senza senso perché il mondo è senza senso, la vita è senza senso, tutto è senza senso. Più di cinquecento pagine per sostenere una roba che Vasco Rossi, dico Vasco Rossi, ha riassunto in un mirabile verso: questa storia una senso non ce l’ha... Va bene da ragazzino, quando ogni autore un po’ audace ti fa scoprire delle cose nuove, però Cecco Angiolieri si studia a quattordici anni, dopo c’è anche dell’altro. Dopo si cresce e si va avanti e che la vita non abbia senso, caro adolescente brufoloso, lo abbiamo capito già da un pezzo. Se proprio devi continuare a ripeterlo, trova almeno un modo un po’ originale per farlo. Per esempio con un romanzo. O con una storia. Io non capisco come possa entusiasmare questa letteratura qua. È l’equivalente affettato e intelligente dei libri Harmony. È un’enorme presa per il culo in cui addetti ai lavori e lettori si trascinano estasiati, contenti di far parte di qualcosa che poco comprendono ma che bisogna apprezzare per partito preso. Una specie di meccanismo identitario: ho letto DFW e ne capisco di letteratura; ho letto DFW e accidenti se ne so; ho letto DFW e l’America contemporanea ora ve la spiego io. E se invece non lo leggiamo e capiamo siamo solo dei rozzi bifolchi, come Remo e Augusta alla Biennale di Venezia. Il tutto, ovviamente, in attesa che un redivivo Fantozzi si alzi in piedi e urli ai quattro venti che siamo di fronte solo all’ennesima cagata pazzesca.

”Nonna dice che mi dimostrerà che la vita è parole e nient’altro. Nonna dice che le parole possono creare e distruggere. Possono tutto.”

Non si tratta del mio primo incontro con DFW, ma è il primo romanzo scritto da lui che leggo (oltre ad essere anche il primo che ha scritto) e quindi forse è la prima volta in cui facciamo davvero sul serio.

Appena 24enne, il buon David è riuscito a tirar fuori un romanzo pieno di estro, erotismo, ironia e violenza. Una di quelle storie che non riesci a descrivere senza ricorrere a un buon numero di aggettivi e locuzioni, spesso in contraddizione e apparentemente inconciliabili tra loro, eppure tutte misteriosamente calzanti.
Con Wallace va sempre a finire così: più cerchi di incasellarlo e racchiuderlo in un canone, più lui continua a mutare forma e a sorprenderti, fino a quando ti decidi a rinunciare e pensi solo a goderti il viaggio.

Lenore Beadsman, protagonista 24enne come il suo creatore ed eroina suo malgrado di questa storia, è il centro gravitazionale di un sistema di figure bizzarre e paradossali: una bisnonna, sua omonima e grande studiosa di Wittgenstein, che fugge misteriosamente dalla casa di riposo; un datore di lavoro nonché amante-quasi-fidanzato ossessivo e nevrotico; un fratello disabile al college che baratta i propri geniali consigli con dosi massicce di droga; un imprenditore più che obeso che progetta di ingurgitare il mondo intero; un pappagallo che finisce a recitare sermoni cristiani in un programma televisivo e la lista continuerebbe ancora a lungo.
Lo stile di Wallace è peculiare e cattura l’attenzione quasi quanto la trama: la narrazione è discontinua, salta da un personaggio all’altro, da uno sketch a quello successivo o precedente e si avvale di giochi di parole, racconti nel racconto, trascrizioni di sedute psicanalitiche, pagine di diario e tanti, tantissimi dialoghi, uno più brillante e spassoso dell’altro.
È una lingua virtuosistica, acrobatica, che si lancia senza paura in voli pindarici, ma che si assapora sempre con grande piacere.

In questa prima prova letteraria dell’autore mancano le celebri note a piè di pagina, le subnote e tutto quell’apparato ipertrofico che ritroveremo in altri scritti successivi e forse è anche per questo che La scopa del sistema si dimostra una lettura frizzante e più facilmente affrontabile di quanto ci si aspetterebbe.
Certo, i temi affrontati sono già quelli che stanno più a cuore a David Foster Wallace, tutt’altro che leggeri: la malattia mentale, la dipendenza, la manipolazione psicologica, la giovinezza, la crisi dell’identità e tutto un sistema di simboli che ci porta verso riflessioni filosofiche sull’Io e l’Altro, ma anche sul potere delle parole e delle storie.
Servendosi di un contesto surreale e di situazioni grottesche e gonfiate fino all’eccesso, l’autore affronta argomenti concreti e molto delicati. Eppure, questo è un romanzo segnato dalla mancanza: c’è carenza di informazioni, nei dialoghi percepiamo dei silenzi carichi di significato e mai sondati e il libro stesso si conclude con una frase tronca. Ma se pensate che questo possa lasciarvi un senso di insoddisfazione e incompletezza, vi sbagliate.
Perché raramente si incontrano autori geniali e appaganti come David Foster Wallace e i suoi scritti rimangono una delle migliori palestre per un lettore.

Un concentrato (si fa per dire...) di ironia e atmosfere surreali.

Avrei voglia di una rilettura in originale, per apprezzare il potere della parola ancora meglio, ma temo con rammarico che sia al di sopra della mie capacità.

n  Most really pretty girls have pretty ugly feet, and so does Mindy Metalman, Lenore notices, all of a sudden. They’re long and thin and splay-toed, with buttons of yellow callus on the little toes and a thick stair-step of it on the back of the heel, and a few long black hairs are curling out of the skin at the tops of the feet, and the red nail polish is cracking and peeling in curls and candy-stripped with decay.n

In The Broom of the System, debut novelist David Foster Wallace attempted to explore the provisional truths of identity and the journey of self-discovery. Thrown into the fray in ways which almost felt intuitive, were themes revolving steadily around religion as opposed to fate, as well as the perilous nature of fanaticism; and about relationships and of the human condition. He seemed particularly interested in the tug and pull nature of psychology and philosophy. Twenty-four year old Wallace presented those themes and scenarios in ways that could perhaps come across as somewhat abstract to the uninitiated reader, and perhaps because I was moderately familiar with his style and prose, the novel was fairly easy to understand. I walked away with an even deeper appreciation for post-modernism and philosophical theory (the bulk of which was a direct reaction to Austrian-British philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein, and his ideas surrounding linguistics. In fact, Wallace had gone on record saying that his book could be seen as a conversation between the Wittgenstein and Jacques Derrida.

One of the most impressive aspects of it was just how fun Wallace made the overall reading experience. Given the intellectual backdrop, one might be afraid of the prose being overly complicated, dense, and possibly even trite. Nothing could be further from the truth. Not in my experience, at least. What’s more, he brought an abundance of life, strength, and agency to these characters that made the journey with them much more profound than I could’ve imagined.

His worldbuilding was original, creative, and exceptionally clever. His style lent itself nicely to a world which was perhaps more complex than the real world at the time of its publication. Wallace’s world was primarily set in 1990, but it was an alternate, or parallel, world, in East Corinth, Ohio. As the term might imply, there were similarities to the late 80s and early 90s, but a lot of the creative mechanisms he used were frankly, fascinating and awe-inspiring. The magic and beauty of his writing wasn’t necessarily the uber creativity or Big Picture Thinking. For me, it was the abundance of small details, the subtleties among a vastly larger world.

n  J: ”I smell breakthrough. The truth is that there’s no difference between a life and a story? But a life pretends to be something more? But it really isn’t more?”
L: “I would kill for a shower.”
J: “What have I said? What have I said? I’ve said that hygiene anxiety is what?”
L: “According to whom?”
J: “Ejection remains an option. Don’t misdirect so transparently. According to me and to my truly great teacher, Olaf Blentner, the pioneer of hygiene anxiety research…”
L: “Hygiene anxiety is identity anxiety.”
J: “I am gagging on the stench of breakthrough.”
L: “I’ve been having digestive trouble, too, really, so don’t…”n

Through there were several characters and a few subsequent POV’s, Wallace’s primary focus was on Lenore Stonecipher Beadsman, a young and naïve telephone switchboard operator, whose main focus was providing adequate customer service. It wasn’t too long, however, before the sudden disappearance of her great-grandmother (a patient at the Shaker Heights Nursing Home,) took her mundane life and challenged everything she had held so dear. With those absurd scenarios, her life could only become more complicated and chaotic.

It was through Gramma Lenore that the protagonist, Lenore, became familiar with Wittgenstein’s philosophies. The early writings of Wittgenstein, in particular, seemed to have contributed to the core values and beliefs she would place on her life. They essentially come to dominate her life and filled her with an existential dread.

n  ”Suppose Gramma tells me really convincingly that all that really exists of my life is what can be said about it… If there’s nothing about me but what can be said about me, what separates me from the lady in this story Rick got who eats junk food and gains weight and squashes her child in her sleep? She’s exactly what’s said about her, right? And same with me, seems like. Gramma says she’s going to show me how a life is words and nothing else. Gramma says words can kill and create. Everything.n

Essentially, the questions she’s wrestling with, and the questions that Wallace implores of the reader, concern identity and purpose in the world. Are we merely the occupations and adjectives that others see? Are we simply the things we purchase and consume, or do they consume us? Are we something more, or less, than mere words would suggest?

There’s something else to be said about The Broom of the System: the playful means of exploring his characters and the unique roles they inhabited in their personal and professional lives. It’s baffling how he could juggle as much as he did, as skillfully as he did, and at such a young age. The result was an enriching story, filled with angst and lore and a profound understanding of what it means to be human.

For the most part, the narrative was linear, though not without its fair share of intellectual pique. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t be a David Foster Wallace novel without its difficulties, some of which included entire scenes lacking context, and whose only insights were dialogue. In fact, there was only one scene that seemed overly difficult and complex, albeit very interesting. Others yet were written as professional transcripts, oddball journal entries, and several fictitious accounts of the strange and the heartbreakingly tragic. Similar to a lot of what he wrote later, Broom was also very meta. Like a Russian doll, there were stories within stories, within stories, and some of the more touching moments took place between Rick Vigorous and Lenore, as he read stories aloud to her.

Lenore’s journey to find Gramma Lenore was a strange one. Many parts it of were hilarious, particularly after Vlad the Impaler was introduced and everything that came with that. What followed can be described in many ways, but I’d call it an absurd clarity. That is, clear until the ending, which was the most bizarre and absurd series of events that the book had to offer. It’s probably the weirdest conclusion I’ve ever read. But, was it actually a “conclusion,” and what exactly was Wallace trying to convey with it?

On the one hand, the obvious response would be that the author was heavy-handedly playing with the expectation of the reader. I think he was also giving commentary on our need to find answers. We want to defy and explain the mysterious and wrap them up neatly—even beautifully—with an elaborate bow. But what he did here was equally frustrating and admirable. It took a certain audacity to subvert the reader’s expectations and I respect that. Was I, or am I still, somewhat disappointed with the risks he took? Admittedly, yes. It would’ve been nice to have a little more clarity, a little more questions answered. But I also can’t imagine it unfolding any other way.

If he had written your typical ending, complete with all—or most—questions answered, I wouldn’t appreciate it as much. I wouldn’t respect it. Frankly, doing the socially expected thing would have cheapened it, and all of his playful linguistics prior would’ve been moot.

n  Attachment to things, to places, to other living beings requires in my view expenditures of energy and attention far in excess of the value of the things thus brought into the relation of attachment. Does this seem unreasonable? The attempt to have the order of one’s life depend on things and persons outside that life is a silly thing, a thing perhaps appropriate only for those weaker, less successful, less fortunate, less advanced that I.n

Would I recommend The Broom of the System, though, seems to be the pertinent question, doesn’t it? The fact of the matter is, and I’ve sure you’ve heard it before, but it bears repeating: the writings of David Foster Wallace aren’t for everyone. His work is definitely polarizing. I loved it, as I’ve loved everything of his that I’ve read so far (Girl with Curious Hair, Infinite Jest, and a handful of his essays,) but I don’t consider myself your typical reader. I’m very analytical, diverse, and I’m constantly striving to learn new things; to evolve and to be the best version of myself. But if my review has piqued your interest, and if you enter it expecting a very unconventional ending, then you might just have a fun time with it.

Wat. Een. Trip.
Filosofische extravaganza's, spitse humor, uitgepuurde stijl en meesterlijke vertelkunst: dit alles gecombineerd tot een zalige, veelkantige en eindeloos meanderende roman.
Het debuut van Foster Wallace, een soort voorloper van zijn tweede roman 'Infinite jest' (ik probeer die nog dit jaar te lezen).
Wauw. Wauw. Wauw.

A borderline maximalist novel. Clever. Witty at parts. Rife with Wittgenstein theories. Overall, thoroughly enjoyable.