4.0-4.3

This is the first time I'm really sitting down and writing a review in a very long time, but this was one where maybe I thought it genuinely deserved a review, and, seeing as I launched myself from beginning to end with rapidity, and it being fresh, I wanted to write while it was still fresh on my head like a dream I'd just woken up from so that I don't forget it.

What a thrill! Seriously. I remember from the beginning being uncomfortable with certain events happening with certain characters against their own feelings, and I can see that it was connected all throughout the novel, but it didn't detract at all. This wasn't about the parts that made me uncomfortable, though there are many unsettling parts in the book for sure that seem angry and frustrated. It was creative and you can see links from the beginning to the end all throughout, despite the fact that the book  seems to end in the middle of a sentence.  

This being said, there is a colorful cast of people that have some heavy idiosyncrasies. The bits with Dr. Jay putting on the gas mask, and always "smelling the stench of breakthrough," but being vaguely reminiscent of what one might experience when going to a psychologist as well as the clear nature of someone who  constantly tells stories and totally ignoring the other person while they're telling the stories, and even one point where another character is very mean to another character in the middle of the story, especially whenever she wants to talk about something more serious.  There are some characters that are grotesquely aware of their own shortcomings and how they can potentially destroy other people namely  that of Norman Bombardini, because even from the very beginning he sees how his marriage is destroyed by his wife asking him to lose 100 pounds, and him instead gaining more weight, I believe it was 60 or 70 pounds.  Wanting to be sincere and have breakthroughs with people is helpful, though, still. I admired the want of characters to be themselves, and for some characters to have a light shined on the forceful and uncomfortable nature of certain actions.

With communication, there's certainly aspects of not being understood and being isolated even whenever you're in the room with one other person trying to talk to them about your own life. Someone communicates that they understand you very clearly, when in fact it is terribly the opposite. There is some redemption to this even though there are some unresolved issues at the end of the book despite this  strange meeting of most if not all of the characters at the end of the book in the Bombardini building. (at least I think that's where it is. It's the place where Lenore works with Mindy, etc.) This part actually reminded me of the ending of Ms. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. It left off and there wasn't really a resolution with the characters. It simply ends.

All this being said, I laughed. I laughed and continued to laugh through most of the book. I know that with Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace said that he set out to write a sad book. And while that may be true, I know that for this book it was sad in the parts of the isolation of communication, but also hilarious in so many different parts. I distinctly remember there being some humorous parts in Infinite Jest whenever I had my first attempt at reading it. (I say attempt because I got about 600 pages in and put it down. At that point I was at the end of my reading stamina and I didn't necessarily have any desire to continue onward four-hundred more pages of what had been building up.)

David Foster Wallace's works are fractal in nature. There might not be a resolution, and similarly, there seem to be some great mysteries in our lives that lay unresolved, and he captures that well in this book. It was entertaining, while nascent. I enjoyed reading this and would recommend it to others. :)

I could very theoretically start listing the shelves where this touches upon, but I'd rather just say that this is a first novel most cocaine heads listening to the middle days of heavy metal would want to write if they were hopelessly in love with with the craziest *roughage* post-modern deconstructionists willing to push all narratives into wonderfully feathered *roughage* prose that's more absurd mixed wth frame within frame within frame *roughage* stories that are linked so very vividly with one another while requiring such heavy *roughage* to digest simply because we're fed the literary equivalent of eight steaks.

Yes. That's right. Eight Steaks. And don't you fucking forget the desert.

This novel is not the grotesquely fat monstrosity that wants not only to consume and replace the universe, as in Infinite Jest, but we do see the much smaller man that Wallace's later book becomes, as it engorges himself, (and us, by proxy,) in record time.

I'm sure I'll incur the wrath of many IJ heads by saying that I absolutely love this book in comparison to that other whale. The frankly told mini-tales were some of the coolest and craziest and fucked up stories, ever. Imagine good mini-novels told as a quick narrative in bed after or before sex, then imagine getting your mind fucked. This is the kind of thing you can expect in this little novel, and it happens on many different levels. Can I say how tickled I was by all the almost meta interpretations of turning your idea of self into a fully three dimensional character? This coming from a psychologist to one of the main characters? Well, shit, you have no idea, how many times I was tickled by similar awesome bits.

It's very smart, the tale is actually rather linear, although there is NO CLIMAX. Not really. There's a headlong rush of words speeding up and speeding up in a Wittgenstein coitus that ends in the ultimate of interruptus, almost as if we were hit over the head by a big broom.

I DO kinda wish I could be a little surprised by that, but it's par for course. :) Wonderful and smart characters, truly oddball situations and conversations, delightfully feathered prose that links all these disparate parts together in a paint splattered mosaic of trash.

Seriously brilliant. Every page is enjoyable. We get the sense of a grand plan shaping. But of course, this is DFW. He is the king of the fuck you. :) I did mention that he's rather heavy metal in his outlook on life, didn't I? lol We all know what he said when someone paid him the compliment by calling him brilliant, right? He said just that. Fuck You. Classic. :)

DFW did for me again. I love his work. I was worried that I would not enjoy this as much as I did Infinite Jest and Pale King, but I loved it. It was laugh out loud funny. Many great characters orbiting one, Lenore Beadsman.

Της έχω πει, όχι δεν θα πάω μαζί σου σε θεάματα γυμναστικής που διαφημίζουν παιδικές τροφές.

Κ όταν λέει γιατί όχι της λέω ρώτα τον Λ.

Λέω κανένα πρόβλημα, πάρε ρεπό το πρωί. Τράβα καμία βόλτα. Γίνε τρισδιάστατη . Υπόγραψε κωλομερια.

Κ αυτή λέει θα πάω να διαβάσω στη γιαγιά μου.
Κ εγώ της λέω τράβα, ρώτα τον έγκυρο νεαρό Λ ποια θα πάει στην Έριβιου, είναι στο διπλανό δωμάτιο.

Κ αυτή στέκεται εκεί με τις ελβιελες της κ λέει μη μου κολλάς εμένα.

Αγάπη μου αγάπη μου αγάπη μου, μίλα μου για αντιστροφή λέω

Quando DIO è un deserto artificiale, La zona in cui vivi le curve di una donna e un'epistassi l'inizio di un indizio che non porta a nulla

Il trauma adolescenziale di Lenore ✸ 1/2
le omonimie e i nomi impossibili ✸✸
Le forzature comiche e la mancanza di una trama ✸✸✸
La mancanza di una trama, le due Lenore e Stonecipher LaVache Beadsman (l'anticristo) ✸✸✸✸
DFW ✸✸✸✸✸

Lenore Beadsman, la protagonista del romanzo, è la rampolla di una famiglia che detiene il controllo di una società che incorpora la maggior parte delle attività di Cleveland. Per una sorta di spirito di ribellione, dovuto al modo in cui è cresciuta, rifiuta di lavorare nell'azienda paterna e opta per un sottopagato lavoro da centralinista presso la casa editrice Frequent & Vigorous.
Una mattina Lenore riceve una telefonata preoccupante dal direttore della casa di cura dove è alloggiata la sua bisnonna, la simpatica vecchietta - ossessionata da Wittgenstein e con il sistema circolatorio di un rettile - è scomparsa nel nulla assieme a decine di altri pazienti e personale sanitario. La scomparsa della bisnonna/mentore innescherà un processo a ritroso da parte di Lenore costellato da ricordi e incontri con la sua complicatissima famiglia per comprendere più su se stessa, le sue fobie le sue chiusure

Il coup de théâtre di David Foster Wallace è lasciare irrisolto il mistero attorno al quale ruota tutto il romanzo- la scomparsa della bisnonna Lenore - e usarlo invece come ossatura sulla quale si sosterranno una caterva di personaggi (21. Sì VENTUNO), spesso di Pynchoniana memoria.

Il mondo che crea è strabiliante, a sprazzi fantascientifico:
- il Deserto Incommensurabile dell'Ohio (DIO) con sabbia nera e laghetti per pescare
- Società assurde di omogeneizzati da modifiche di DNA, altre di servizi BDSM denominata “Bambi l’Antro della Disciplina”

Molto è in tonalità MAIUSCOLE quasi a sfotterne la vacuità dietro gli altisonanti nomi e marchi. Questo è il mondo strabiliante in cui è ambientato il romanzo; un mondo così strabiliante da avere bisogno di più sottolivelli narrativi.
La scrittura di DFW è decostruita, piena di ammiccamenti, ironia, e risvolti filosofici e profonde sofferenze interiori guastate sempre da un ambiente caotico che permea il testo.

Giusto, Il TITOLO:

Lenore mi fece sedere in cucina e prese una scopa e si mise a scopare furiosamente il pavimento, e poi mi chiese quale fosse secondo me la parte più fondamentale della scopa, la più cruciale, se il manico o la chioma. Il manico o la chioma. E io non sapevo cosa rispondere, e lei si mise a scopare ancor più violentemente, e io cominciai a innervosirmi, e finalmente dissi che secondo me era la chioma, perché senza manico si può scopare lo stesso, basta tenere in mano l’affare con la chioma, mentre scopare solo col manico è impossibile, e a quel punto lei mi agguantò e mi scaraventò giù dalla sedia e mi gridò qualcosa cosa tipo: «Già, perché a te la scopa serve per scopare, no? Ecco a cosa ti serve la scopa, eh?» e roba del genere. E gridò che se invece la scopa ci serviva per spaccare una finestra allora la parte fondamentale era chiaramente il manico, e passò a dimostrarlo spaccando la finestra della cucina, cosa che fece accorrere i domestici, terrorizzati; ma che se appunto la scopa ci serviva per scopare, tipo per esempio i vetri rotti della finestra, e dai che scopava, allora l’essenza della cosa era la chioma.

Su 558 pagine penso l'unico riferimento sia questo (e La lenore citata non è la protagonista ma la Bisnonna).
Perché lo sto leggendo? Ho avuto a più riprese l'impressione di subire una Supercazzola

Eppure
l'ho
letto.

Ho deciso (più che compreso) che è Il linguaggio l'indiscusso protagonista di questo romanzo sotto il profilo:
1) stilistico
2) filosofico
3) goliardico
È infatti evidente l'influsso della filosofia di Wittgenstein. Non è un caso che il libro che la bisnonna di Lenore porti sempre con sé è quello delle Ricerche filosofiche di Ludwig Wittgenstein. Secondo il filoso tedesco il linguaggio opera come elemento di costruzione della realtà. Quindi Non esiste più una realtà oggettiva raffigurata da quanto viene detto, bensì le parole acquistano senso e significato solo nel contesto in cui vengono utilizzate. Di questi "giochi linguistici" DFW se ne appropria e li plasma fino a sbrogliare quasi tutta la matassa prima del patatrac finale.

Il FINALE

Mi appello ai laureati in filosofia o fruitori di LSD per trovare un epilogo.

P.S: le parti delle sedute psicoanalitiche dimostrano grande padronanza del linguaggio terapeutico (seppur scimmiottato) un dramma che le parole con cui riusciva ad essere ambizioso e creativo non lo abbiano salvato dal suo deserto nero interiore

P.P.S: Sì i Post Scriptum in un romanzo del genere ci stanno per forza. Servono come allenamento per le note di Infinite Jest

http://diavazontas.blogspot.gr/2016/0...

«Η σκούπα και το σύστημα» είναι το πρώτο πρώτο μυθιστόρημα που έγραψε ο Γουάλας στα 24 του, μέρος της πτυχιακής του στο Κολέγιο Άμχερστ· το άλλο μέρος ήταν μια μελέτη για τον Βιτγκενστάιν. «Η σκούπα και το σύστημα» συνομιλεί με το έργο του Τόμας Πίντσον, έχει αρκετά ντράβαλα με τον Βιτγκενστάιν και τον Ντεριντά, αλλά κυρίως έχει ατελείωτη πλάκα, εξαιρετική αφήγηση, πλοκή που σε κρατάει- αν και κατά το Πιντσονικό πρότυπο δεν πάει πουθενά- και κυρίως μέσα στους βασικούς πρωταγωνιστές του, τον Βλαντ τον Παλουκωτή, έναν παπαγάλο κοκατίλ που μαθαίνει να μιλάει, και τελικά κάνει καριέρα σε εκπομπή τηλευαγγελιστή με το όνομα Ουγολίνος ο Μεγαλοπρεπής.

Αλλά, ας τα πάρουμε από την αρχή (όσο γίνεται). Η Λινόρ, γόνος πολύ πλούσιας οικογένειας που φτιάχνει παιδικές τροφές σε βαζάκι, δουλεύει ως τηλεφωνήτρια ενός εκδοτικού οίκου, του Φρίκουεντ και Βίγκορους. Έχει δεσμό με το αφεντικό της, Ρικ Βίγκορους, έναν τύπο με πολλά θέματα με το πουλί του, 20 χρόνια μεγαλύτερό της, άσχημο, που στο κρεβάτι αρέσκεται να της διηγείται ιστορίες από βιβλία που απέρριψε, και που έχει παθολογική εξάρτηση από τη Λινόρ. Γνωρίστηκαν στο σαλόνι του αγύρτη ψυχαναλυτή τους, που έχει ψύχωση υγιεινής. Α, η Λινόρ έχει παθολογική σχέση με την γιαγιά της, που ήταν μαθήτρια του Βιτγκενστάιν, και πίστευε πως τα πάντα είναι λέξεις. Και της μπαίνει η ιδέα πως μόνον ο,τι μπορεί να λεχθεί είναι η ζωή της. Ο Βλαντ ο Παλουκωτής είναι το πουλί της Λινόρ, που της έκανε δώρο ο παθολογικά ζηλιάρης, Βικ. Η γιαγιά εξαφανίζεται, ο πατέρας της έχει βρει μια πατέντα για τις παιδικές τροφές που κάνει τα παιδιά να μιλάνε πολύ πιο γρήγορα, κι η Λινόρ τελικά σχετίζεται με έναν τύπο που ο μπαμπάς του έφτιαξε μια κατάμαυρη έρημο καταμεσής μιας κανονικής Πολιτείας, την Θ.Ε.Ο, ενώ οι τηλεφωνικές γραμμές στη Φρίκουεντ και Βίγκορους είναι τόσο για τα μπάζα, που έγκυρη γραμμή βγάζει μόνο ένας στους εκατό.

Ο Γουάλας έχει εκπληκτικό χιούμορ, στήνει ένα Πιντσονικό σύμπαν όπου τα φώτα νέον της δεκαετίας του 70 αναβοσβήνουν συνέχεια μες στο κεφάλι σου. Οι ιστορίες του είναι εξωφρενικές και αστείες, βαθιές και φιλοσοφικές, πάντα ανολοκλήρωτες, πάντα υπαινικτικές, χωρίς να ξέρεις ακριβώς τι υπονοούν. Είναι απίστευτος παραμυθάς, μια πραγματική μεγαλοφυΐα της αφήγησης, ένας συγγραφέας που όμοιός του δεν θα υπάρχει ξανά. Για αυτό και αυτοκτόνησε στα 48.

«Η σκούπα και το σύστημα» είναι πολύ διαφορετικό βιβλίο από αυτά των διηγημάτων του που έχω διαβάσει, το “Oblivion” και το "Girl with curious hair"- εδώ δεν σε πιάνει από τον λαιμό να σε στραγγαλίσει όπως σ' αυτά. Σε βάζει όμως σε έναν κυκεώνα σκέψεων, άκρως απολαυστικών και δυσλειτουργικών, και σε κάνει να θέλεις να διαβάσεις και τα υπόλοιπα μυθιστορήματα του Ντέιβιντ Φόστερ με μανία. Θέλω Infinite jest τώρα.

Non sono sicura di ciò che ho letto e posso dire solo una cosa con certezza: non ho mai letto qualcosa di simile. Non penso che al mondo esista un altro scrittore come lo è stato David Foster Wallace, non credo di aver mai letto descrizioni tanto particolari; DFW riesce a descrivere quelle sensazioni che non pensavo potessero essere messe per iscritto, riesce a descrivere alla perfezione cose che noi percepiamo solamente, cose sussurrate.
"Che dire, dunque, di Lenore, dei capelli di Lenore? Sono capelli in sé e di per sé di tutti i colori - biondi e rossi e corvini e ramati - ma che determinano un compromesso ottico esteriore tale da farli risultare complessivamente, e tranne per fulminei bagliori registrabili solo mediante coda dell'occhio, banalmente castani. Capelli che vengono giù lisci seguendo la dolce curva delle guance fin sotto il mento, dove quasi si ricongiungono, come fragili mandibole di insetto rapace. Oh, se quei capelli sanno mordere. Di quei capelli io conosco il morso."
Come può una descrizione del genere non affascinarti e lasciarti senza parole?
La trama di questo romanzo passa in secondo piano e questo grazie all'abilità di DFW di caratterizzare i suoi personaggi in modo esagerato, grottesco, e alla sua capacità di inserire all'interno di questa crescente follia dei temi estremamente complicati e delicati, come la volontà di decidere per se stessi, la ricerca della propria identità, l'importanza delle parole che rendono vere anche cose che potrebbero non esserlo e il rapporto con l'Altro.
In questo romanzo troviamo di tutto: filosofia, spunti di riflessione, situazioni assurde.
È il mio primo romanzo di Wallace e spero di approcciarmi presto anche ai saggi e ai racconti!

n  The Broom of the Social Cataloguing Websiten

The white letters on the square black keys my fingers tap on. The books I'm currently reading, on my desk and next to and on top of the printer on the stand beside it. The glass of water that will take two or three more drinks before I refill it in the kitchen, with several cubes of ice. The box of Kleenex with pictures of a baby polar bear on all six faces. The desktop calendar made out of black wooden cubes for the two-digit days, in white script, on top of the three white and wooden rectangular prisms which have the month written on each of the long sides, in black script, showing a date from 22 days ago. The brief hail, followed by rain around midnight, 6 February 2017, which as I'm typing this is joined by hail again, because I was considering the fact that I could hear all of the raindrops as a ceaseless, collective static before realising that there were two layers to it, the static and the more pronounced pattering, which I then came to my senses as denoting the return of hail. Dismissing the idea of making a German joke about Heil. I close my window and the sound decreases, and I consider whether to turn my air-con on again. I reopen my window as the rain stops, but there is scarcely any wind tonight.

The speed with which I remove a 'like' of a friend's progress update from my page unless it is a once-a-month kind of resonance. The pondering of and the reasons thereof of how self-conscious I am about showing up on friend's feeds excepting the publishing of book reviews and progress/general updates. The reflection of this facet in how I see members who don't hide any activity, while being especially active in liking and commenting and shelving and reviewing, and potentially fill up your feed with over a dozen items each day, and the reflection on whether I am too self-centred, judgmental, or whether it's a case of simply seeing and thinking about things differently, and that I care too much about little things sometimes, while occasionally thinking about things in a different way merely from a short talk or a change in perception. Not wanting to jiggle with my feed settings, not knowing how people can feel comfortable with hundreds of friends to keep tabs on. The interest in the temporally and computationally impossible comparison between the number of times I've loaded my profile page on Goodreads as opposed to the number of times I've looked at my face in the mirror, since joining this site.

The slowly decreasing number of books authored by David Foster Wallace I have left to read. The gradual change in the impressions, imagined now as an ever-swaying, sebaceous rainbow bridge oscillating between mountain and mountain, above some peaceful yet intimidating forests, ranging from effort to delight to adoration to addiction to habit to comfort with intermediary states of realisation and ululation and appellation and in recent stages, the admixture thereof of those impressions and states, processing pages and lines and words and letters not just from the usual vantage point of a reader but as a reader of this particular writer, choosing this book to pen these squiggles onto as this work of his was his earliest, a little, yet also brightly inspiring seed in the garden - I am still reading David Foster Wallace, but he has already changed the way I read, want to read, write, and want to write. And those four things might mean nothing, but the rain is coming back now, softer than before, and the wind is coming through my window.





6 February, 2017

Non si può negare l'evidenza.
L'evidenza è che DFW era una personalità al di fuori di ogni schema, così come la sua scrittura.
Una tavolozza di colori infiniti, capaci di mescolarsi nei modi più improbabili. La parola, il testo, in questo romanzo (si può chiamare ancora così? Boh, forse no!) vengono fatti esplodere, ma prima portati alla massima potenza.
La scopa del sistema è un libro che poche persone avrebbero potuto scrivere.
Tutto questo non si può negare, mi sembra oggettivo.
A DFW questo va riconosciuto.
Il lato soggettivo, ahimè, però, mi dice di un libro non attraente, col quale il corpo a corpo non stimola la mia curiosità narrativa.
L'empatia non si crea mai, mi resta freddo e distante. Un testo da analizzare e non da vivere.

Forse è colpa mia, ci mancherebbe.
Resta ciò che ho detto di DFW e della sua scrittura così eclettica ed unica. Qualcosa di inaudito che però non mi colpisce e non mi segna a fondo.
Magari un giorno sarò pronto e mi metterà k.o., ne sono certo.

Ps. questa versione Einaudi ha una delle copertine più belle di sempre. Anche questo mi sembra evidente!

I am not sure how to describe this... thing I read. David Foster Wallace was supposed to be some sort of sublime genius. I thought The Broom of the System was trying way too hard to be sublime and ingenuous, and while there were plenty of clever bits, it was clever bits and characters tossed around in a mostly unfunny satire of... something.

There really isn't a plot per se. Lenore Stonecipher Beadsman is looking for her great-grandmother, who up and disappeared from her nursing home along with all the other residents. She also has a boyfriend/boss named Rick Vigorous, who is a quivering mass of neuroses and insecurity. The other main subplot of sorts involves her cockatiel, Vlad the Impaler, who goes from amusingly reciting Lenore's roommate's rehearsals of her break-up speech with her boyfriend, complete with intimate details of their sex life, to starring on a televangelist Christian broadcast. (So when the bird says "Make me come!" -- yes, it goes there.) There is all sorts of other strangeness, like the "Great Ohio Desert" (explained in the prologue with a farcical speech from the Governor of Ohio).

Chapters kind of careen between updating us on the whacky misadventures of Lenore and Rick and "Wang-Dang Lang," a dick-swinging good ol' boy who first made his appearance terrorizing Lenore and her friends in a drunken frat prank and reappears years later, and random outtakes, ranging from Vlad the Impaler's appearance on Christian TV to Lenore's answering the phone at "Frequent and Vigorous" publishing to her creepy to the point of scary sessions with her therapist. Also, many small meta-fictional insertions by Rick Vigorous, some of which appear to be approaching a point and others which are just freaking bizarre.

Maybe I don't get this whole post-modernist thing. Maybe David Foster Wallace is too sophisticated and clever for me. Or maybe I didn't much like A Confederacy of Dunces either.

Lord Wallace of Amherst’s debut novel is—pardon the obvious—an enormo-homage to the postmodernist ladies. I was surprised at the sheer Gaddisness of this one (narratorless dialogue, two interlocutors per section, frequently deployed throughout) and not so surprised at the Delilloian weirdness and Barthian frametalemaking. The structure seems intricate and impressive, although the plot is mostly linear—each alphabetical sub-chapter responds to events close to those in previous alphabetical sub-chapters, taking the sheen off the structural play. Dave’s voice arrived fully formed. His freewheeling comic imagination (which he wheeled a little too freely in the 400pp-too-long Infinite Jest) isn’t necessarily my favourite characteristic of dfwian prose, but he also lards the book with his trademark monologues (all his monologues here, and arguably in his other fictions, being put into the mouths of implausibly clever Wallace-alikes) which also serve as a conduit for the stories that account for the metafictive element of this not-very-metafictive novel. Not sure I was particularly swept up by The Broom in the end—the mostpart was wildly entertaining but the whole felt largely aimless, building to climaxes that never climaxed. But. But. Hey. Certainly one heck of a debut novel . . .

I’m pretty sure I liked this more than Infinite Jest.