Gavin Leech

4 Dating App Profile Cliches You Can Ignore if He Has a Dog

...Anything mentioning “Infinite Jest”. Yuck! I mean, besides the fact that David Foster Wallace was an abusive shitbag, a Tinder gu

4 Dating App Profile Cliches You Can Ignore if He Has a Dog

...Anything mentioning “Infinite Jest”. Yuck! I mean, besides the fact that David Foster Wallace was an abusive shitbag, a Tinder guy thinking he’s deep for having read a book that thousands of his contemporary pseudo-intellectual bros have also read is a red flag. But honestly, you’re absolutely allowed to ignore this one if he brings his chunky lil’ english bulldog on your coffee date.

People like David Foster Wallace. But pretentious people like him, because his big book is difficult and they think his status will rub off on them; and but he did some horrible things, and so this large book’s reputation is much larger still than it (e.g. As well as the usual exhaustive wiki cult attentions, there’s a series of wacky blogs and a support group devoted to how gruelling it is; we view length as pretentious in itself, which speaks badly of our motives or attention span), and so you have to begin your discussion of this beautiful, tragic, silly thing clarifying that you’re not like those other guys. Or maybe you can gesture towards doing that and then say no, I’m not going to do a disclaimer, if I don’t have to do one for liking fucking Hamsun or Celine or London or Dahl or Althusser or Mailer or Koestler or Lakatos or Angela Davis or AA Gill or Malcolm X or Alice Sheldon or Stein or Burroughs or Pound’s writing.

The older Mario gets, the more confused he gets about the fact that everyone at E.T.A. over the age of [10] finds stuff that is really real uncomfortable and they get embarrassed. It’s like there’s some rule that real stuff can only get mentioned if everybody rolls their eyes or laughs in a way that isn’t happy.

Despite appearances, it has a very simple message. It’s about the very real downside to being (hyper) intellectual: that your theories can get in the way of your physical sensations (rob them of their immediacy and emotional impact) and prevent you from interacting with others in an easy, fluent, direct way. It’s about the rejection of postmodernism from within. But these are pretty niche disorders. Much more importantly it’s about (what Wallace saw as) the general late-C20th tendency towards a toxic sort of irony, which destroys value by making people less receptive to the world, and which emotionally dulls those who take contingency to heart.

This is now called “the meaning crisis” and there’s a large collection of internet people talking about it as if it was the most important problem in the world. I don’t know to what extent our crisis is the same as DFW’s one; I don’t know to what extent this is a problem for one sort of sceptical Western intellectual and no one else. Insofar as you think Nietzsche predicted it correctly in 1880, it might be the same and a general problem.

But Infinite Jest distracts you from those simple meanings with a forest of calculus and psychopharmacology and Boston slang, with 200 footnote discontinuities and 7000 neologisms and proper nouns. I say that Wallace “rejects postmodernism” - whatever that means - but he stubbornly maintains the confusing, excessive, perspectival, mashup aesthetics which are the least fake denotation of the term. (In the last 20 years people have painstakingly built tools to clean the mess intentionally strewn before you.)

This message is essentially the same as a thousand Sunday sermons: “be excellent to each other”, “caring is cool”, “only connect”. If it was not wrapped in armour-piercing arcana, fancy theory, and formal experimentation then its intended audience would never let it in. Infinite Jest has to be pretentious, because its audience is.

...I am just about the world's worst source of info on Infinite Jest.

It’s hard to say things about IJ because, despite the above quote, in a real sense you are competing with Wallace if you do; IJ has already Freuded, Hegelled and problematized itself, not least in its 200pp of (plot-endogenous) footnotes. It also has no ending: you shlep through a thousand pages, work for weeks, and are rewarded with a slap.

It reports neurotic details of a dozen things I’m not interested in - tennis, optical physics, pharmacology, counter-pharmacology, the specifics of child abuse - and is riveting even then. Every hundred pages there’s a passage to gasp and half-close your eyes at. It is warmth reporting on ice.

James is Wallace; the samizdat is IJ. Both are over-the-top, both are missiles aimed at emotional detachment.

Hal’s mental illness is overdetermined: we’re given half a dozen possible causes for his detachment from the world. Against the grand cultural point of the book in general, these are biological: drug withdrawal, drug toxicity, an exotic mould he ate, (plus burnout from the strictures of elite athletic training).

Above, I focussed on the personal emotional-philosophical stuff. But there are a dozen plot threads, including an apocalyptic terrorism plot, and an idiot celebrity germaphobe president.

There will be overlaps with its namesake Hamlet, though not for me, not yet, barring:
“BERNARDO: Who’s there?” - opening of Hamlet
“I am…” - opening of IJ

As well as the bit where James Incandenza (the father)’s ghost manifesting and warning… a character he’s not related to - who notes that had the ghost appeared to his son, he would’ve messed the kid up…

As well as Hal spending much of the second half of the book doing nothing brooding.

IJ stylizes itself with things which have been considered the opposite of style - formal organisation titles, straightfaced repetition of details and nerdy facts and full names; unnecessary, often-unfunny subject-predicate clarifications (Wallace, that is); and oodles of technical explanations. The thousand footnotes give reading it an interruptive rhythm. So but there’s constant digression in the text (at one point there’s three pages of flashback and tangents between two lines of dialogue) and in your train of thought. Life is a series of more or less successful digressions.

Almost everyone is in some way deformed: phobic, neurotic, addicted, displacing, disabled. It would be easy to assume that this is Wallace’s view of us all, but IJ is cartoonish and deformed in a lot of ways.

DFW is an omnivore, a generalist: IJ is nauseatingly detailed with academic arcana, medical/chemicological/mathematical/scientific passages, lC20th Boston slang, film-geek waffle, & what one reviewer called “pseudo-science” (but which are surely just “alt.hypotheses”) - which theoretics all add up to sensory overload, and exasperation for anyone who expects to encircle and dominate what they read with their understanding.

The “unreliable narrator” conceit in literature is making its worthy way towards cliché; the third-person-objective narrator who is nonetheless occasionally ignorant is entrenched but still crisp - but ignorant footnotes?

The discourse changes style and inflection when swapping storyline to storyline - most noticeably when the Francophone Marathe is its object. (At one point I got suitably paranoid and saw the whole book as an informal report by the cross-dressing secret agent Steeply.)

The physical contrast between brothers (Apollonian, Olympean) Hal and (Tiny Tim, deformed, innocent) Mario is unsubtle, but so. Mario and Lyle are perhaps the only naive, unironizing characters among, say, the hundred in the cast. This links Mario’s innocence to his defect: innocence is a “defect” in an ironic world. And ‘stupidity as innocence’, too: stupidity as the absence of an attitude, rather than the absence of intelligence.

Like Don DeLillo or Orson Scott Card, Wallace makes his children ridiculously hyperarticulate. I’m inclined to name this sort of thing “Hogwarts Syndrome”, with the kids more sensible, prolix and interesting than any pack of children have rights to be.

Mario notes at one point that he has lost his easy empathy with his little brother, that he cannot tell how Hal is feeling anymore: we the readers go through the same, beginning the book inside Hal’s head at a moment of trauma and insight, and but gradually (as the cast expands) lose this closeness.

The word “annular” recurs every thirty pages, though I only noticed this cause I had no idea what it meant. (“…of or pertaining to a ring or rings, ring-formed, ringed.”) I now think it’s a key MacGuffin, describing as it does

The topic of futility would arise only if one were trying to surmount time, chance, and self-description by discovering something more powerful than any of these. For Proust and Nietzsche, however, there is nothing more powerful or important than self-redescription.

They are not trying to surmount time and chance, but to use them. They are quite aware that what counts as resolution, perfection, and autonomy will always be a function of when one happens to die or to go mad. But this relativity does not entail futility. For there is no big secret which the ironist hopes to discover, and which he might die or decay before discovering. There are only little mortal things to be rearranged by being redescribed.

The other great clear postmodernist, Richard Rorty, actually celebrates irony (though it’s not quite the same thing that Wallace is attacking). Irony is like (radical) scepticism plus the pragmatic sense that you have to take some stance towards the world. So you admit that e.g. human rights are a Eurocentric construction, that you affirm them entirely due to an accident of birth and history, but you still insist on them.

It’s a philosophical question whether this makes any sense, whether it is actually impossible to obtain moral truths, whether intercultural comparison is valid. It’s an empirical question whether any human can be happy not taking things for granted, admitting that their worldview is arbitrary.

There are six suicides in the book, not counting people who watch the samizdat. Joelle, Gompert, Day give long rationales, among others (eg. p648):

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise.

Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames.

This can’t help but resonate now. Just because you’re a genius doesn’t mean you’ll ever arrive at any answers.

That a book about the importance of sincerity became, first, the object of a cheap signalling game and, subsequently, the object of scorn and the received epitome of pretension, is just one of those fucking things.