Hackles.

     As a reader, I like to underline, star and bracket. I write questions in the margins: How does he know about the entertainment? Is he high? Huh? I often jot down little blue-inked notes to myself: Sexist. A joke about God. Unbelievable! I also circle vocabulary words of which I do not have a full understanding (but I rarely consult the dictionary while I am reading). Overall, I am confident that the skills I bring to a text like Infinite Jest enable me to have an enriching experience. But I am a slow reader (that I don’t want to “miss” anything reveals something about me as a person) and I found the sheer length of the novel had a counter-productive effect on my experience. It was like running a marathon every day, and my focus shifted from really absorbing the text to just getting through it.

     I shredded my first reflective essay because I felt it was stale and clunky. I felt I was too invested in my personal experience and that I wasn’t challenging myself to glean new insights from the process. Then, taking a new tact, I extrapolated 35 excerpts from the text. In winnowing it down to three, I was conscious not to pick items for which I would already have an “ideal” response, after all, what would be the point of regurgitating something that was already in my head? At Thursday’s tutor training, when Megan Fulwiler mentioned the zone of proximal development, I started to think about how people can plateau in their learning. I thought that if I truly want my graduate experience to be a time of growth, then I need to challenge myself in a new ways. This sentiment is reflected in my first selection.

     Ortho Stice explains Schtitt’s philosophy to his young charges. He says “…it’s about more than tennis, mein kinder… it’s about how to reach down into parts of yourself you didn’t know were there and get down in there and live inside these parts. And the only way to get them: sacrifice. Suffer. Deny. What are you willing to give…” (119). Taken at face value, this sounds more like the mantra of a drill sergeant or a pre-game speech of an NFL head coach. But in my view, this approach is delimiting for young people, particularly in the context of sport. I wrote in my blog that this “closed system” does not work because it is predicated on the belief that all human beings have an emotional on/off button. Case in point: Hal Incandenza has all of the physical attributes to be a top-ranked tennis player, in fact, DeLint observes, “Nobody stays back and out-controls Incandenza anymore” (656). But we also know that Hal was the first person to find his father after he committed suicide by sticking his head in a microwave. How could this NOT do irreparable damage to the psyche of a young person? And how can Hal be expected to “stay in the zone” when he is engulfed in inner turmoil? I believe the human brain processes experiences via hierarchy of emotional necessity. Hal cannot achieve “self-transcendence through pain” (660) because his unresolved issues take precedence.

     As is often the case, I chose the Schtitt example because it resonates with my past experience. But if I am being honest with myself, then I have to admit that I am “stuck” when it comes to my past. The question then becomes: how do I get un-stuck? This is the essential question and also the moment in which I am sensing a personal shift. I must admit, I am troubled by this. It supports the nagging suspicion that I am somehow damaged or tainted. I am drawn back to the key words “sacrifice,” “suffer,” and “deny.” I have a pre-conceived notion that in order to reach my goals – writing a memoir, being at relative peace with myself – then I must do these things. But what if I am wrong? What if my approach is somehow flawed or I don’t have the “emotional toughness” to see it through? I am afraid that I have been doing somersaults with one hand nailed to the ground for too long. But all is not lost. This type of brutal self-honesty is important and critical in my development as a person and as a writer. It is, in fact, what lead me to select my next quote.

     Jim Incandenza’s father raises a flask of liquor and tells his son, “I drink this, sometimes, when I’m not actively working, to help me accept the same painful things it’s now time for me to tell you, son” (160). Taken out of context, this line may be construed as fairly innocuous, a father justifying his actions to his son. But within the framework of Jim’s first tennis lesson, we see several other strands of inheritance. When Jim’s father asks him to put the Guide to Indices down, it is clear that he doesn’t respect Jim’s natural talents. He all but dismisses “That quick little scientific-prodigy’s mind that she’s (Jim’s mother) so proud of…” (159). Jim’s father is obsessed with the physical nature of objects – the perfectly round tennis ball, the feel of the garage door and the flask – and tries to impart this respect in his son. He also tells Jim how his own father “never acknowledged I even existed” (163) and that he’d once overheard his father tell a client that his son would “Never Be Great” (166). Reading this section helps us to see the origins of Himself’s deep emotional scars, and furthermore, how he evolved into the man who conferred his emotional baggage onto his children.

     This scene was particularly poignant to me because my father was a severe alcoholic who died of cerrhosis at 57, and reading this section had the effect of cloaking my mood in a gray woolen blanket. At some point during my reading, though, it dawned on me that my experience, by comparison, was idyllic. Although I suspect my father suffered from depression, he wasn’t a doom-and-gloom kind of guy. He tried to hug and kiss me all the time, for Pete’s sake. For a long time, I thought that the circumstances of my father’s death would be an integral part of any memoir I would write (see above how I am/was “stuck”). But by working this process through in my own head, I now realize that I have more choice in the matter. As it turns out, the dark chasms I have ascribed to his life are, to some extent, my own creation. Moving forward, I think it would be useful to talk to my mother about my father’s sense of humor and the fun things they did together before the disease took over.  

     Scanning my “List of 35,” it occurs to me that many of the items I’ve excerpted have a dead-serious, austere quality to them. But there were some funny moments in the novel as well.  One of the highlights in the story, for me, occurs in footnote 332: 17 NOV. Y.D.A.U.  In this scene, Michael Pemulis is called to the Dean of Academic Affairs Office to explain what he knows about John Wayne’s “reaction” to the drugs he’s ingested. As Pemulis gives his side of the story, “DeLint’s nostrils got that pale flare they got… when he smelled horseshit and knew you knew it” (1073). What follows is a hilarious recap of Wayne’s “public castigations of his various peers and instructors” on the WETA broadcast (1074). DeLint then informs Pemulis: “you can either finish out the term for credit or you can hit the trail with your little sailing cap full of pockets on a stick like a banadanna” (1075). Just when we think deLint, Nwangi and Watson have finally pinned the goods on Pemulis, he asks: “And this affects the WhataBurger, my chances?” (1076)

     This scene, although occurring in a latter section of the novel, represented a major shift in my attitude towards David Foster Wallace. Previously, I had felt that he was more geared towards portraying the darker parts of the human experience. However, in just three pages, he managed to change my impressions of him. Also, because the subject matter of Infinite Jest is quite heavy (addiction, depression, suicide), it was nice to get a much-needed reprieve from the oppressive tone. What this ultimately tells me about myself as a reader, thinker and writer is that I place a premium on humor. This gets back to the idea of choice. In life, we can either wallow in the muck or pick ourselves up by our bootstraps and go on our merry way.

      If we are to truly grow from the educational experience, then we must continue to question the strategies we use, the themes we gravitate towards, our interpretations of those themes, and the biases we bring to a piece of literature. So many of our personal preferences in literature are, it turns out, reflections of our own experience. Reading Infinite Jest  put me in a contemplative mood for three weeks running; its cumulative effects stirred the sleeping wraiths of my own past. On some level, this novel strikes me as a cautionary tale. The moral: if you go searching for the darkest qualities of the human condition, chances are you will find them. (Funny how we gloss over the consequences of this exhumation process and its effect on the author’s psyche).  In the end, David Foster Wallace’s novel allowed me to look at my own ”stuff” from a more optimistic vantage point. That I would prefer to tread lightly is a matter of personal choice. This wisdom is especially useful as I search for ways to tell my own story.

Now that we are finished reading Infinite Jest (and I’m not playing beat the clock to get my blog posted) I have ample time to reflect upon the novel, what I think Wallace sought to accomplish, and consider my reactions to his opus.

I told Kim during the break last night that I have never felt more ambivalent about a literary work. There were times I read with rapt attention, the narrative seemed to flow effortlessly, and I couldn’t wait to find out what happens next. But there were also several excerpts where it was all I could do to reach that last sentence. I suspect I’m not alone. This quasi-schizoid experience has led me to think more deeply about authorial intent.

I believe DFW set out to concoct an esoteric narrative that would appeal to a wide variety of readers (which in itself seems like a paradox). His fictional text seems to encompass several genres, including self-help, religion, sports, war, film, mathematics, etc. Thematically, his topics are vast and varied, and in his novel we can find extensive discourse on parenthood, adultery, teen angst, depression, suicide, drug abuse, homelessness, animal cruelty, international politics, espionage, and entertainment. The list goes on and on. Perhaps the breadth and complexity works for those readers who want to be exposed to things they know very little about (vis-à-vis Eschaton).

Reading this novel has forced me to take stock in what I value in a narrative. For me, Wallace’s humor and human interest elements were the most compelling. Conversely, I found the technical jargon, the excessive use of acronyms and his seemingly gratuitous use of footnotes as detracting from the experience. I am still on the fence in regards to the use of carnivalesque as a form of social commentary.

Several people in class seemed miffed with the ending; I would have to say that I was not surprised (nor did I feel let down) when the novel ended on a rather abrupt note. Here is my take on it: the novel is supposed to be reflective of the varieties of human experience. Out in the BIG BAD WORLD we have a tenuous grip on reality (a man-made concept). Wallace’s lack of resolution echoes this existential uncertainty. When I think about the ultimate destinies of the characters in the novel, I liken it to people in my own past. We shared an experience once, we have drifted apart lo these long years, but I am left with an indelible memory. Maybe they even contributed to my growth as a person…

In the end, perhaps what matters most is our own interpretations of what happened in the novel. Bern is of the opinion that Hal was getting further from his sense of self and closer to an emotional breakdown as the narrative continues. I choose to believe the opposite. Remember, Hal is only 17, and although he is critical of the Inner Infant meeting, the fact of the matter is he drove like 50 ticks to attend an NA meeting. How could this not be an act of self love? I also believe that he was high while meeting with the college administrators (hence, the dry mouth) and that when he says “I’m in here,” it’s a reflection of his marijuana-induced annular thinking. Upon further consideration, his facial expressions were the involuntary “tells” of someone with deep-seeded pathology trying to break out of his solipsistic cage.

In my opinion, ambiguity is one of the hallmarks of great literature. On that score, Wallace is worthy of praise.

The last quarter of the book contains several examples of characters engaging in acts of morality, and in some cases, struggling with their evolving self-awareness.   

Unable to speak while recovering in a hospital bed, Don Gately has plenty of time to reflect on his childhood and the genesis of his addiction. He begins to wonder why he never intervened on his mother’s behalf when she was repeatedly beaten by the M.P. But we recognize Gately as at least having some compassion when he reflects on the relationship he developed with his neighbor, Mrs. Waite. His capacity for remorse is confirmed when he “found himself blubbering” while making fake college IDs.

Hal’s character also evolves emotionally, beginning with his full disclosure to Mario re his marijuana habit. Perhaps even more affirming is the notion that Hal is beginning to think of how others might be affected by his actions (783). In an effort to stay clean, Hal even goes so far as to search out an NA meeting. All of these events lead is to the revelation that Hal is indeed becoming his own person, reinforced by the simple observation he makes during the blizzard. He said, “It occurred to me that I didn’t have to eat if I wasn’t hungry” (906).

Marathe has “lost the belly” for the type of work the AFR does, and in fact, treats Kate Gompert to Kahluas and milk after she sustains a head injury during a mugging.  Contrary to what we would expect, the Assistant District Attorney seeks to make amends with Don Gately, hoping that it will help with his wife’s phobia.  Even Himself, whose character has been portrayed as emotionally stunted, it turns out, had offered Orin some commendable fatherly advice on reasons to abstain from watching pornography.

It has been said that David Foster Wallace makes no attempts to tie up loose ends with respect to the fate of the characters in Infinite Jest. However, as readers, we can infer that many of the characters are undergoing a spiritual awakening towards the end of the novel.

In this section of the text, Wallace gives us the play-by-play of Hal Incandenza’s hiccup vs. “The Darkness” on the tennis court. Although we learn much about competition in this section, as well as which E.T.A. players are most likely to go the distance, I was most interested in the light that was shed upon Hal’s emotions.

At some point prior to the contest, Hal has decided to kick his marijuana habit. It seems his desire to do so is more about not withholding secrets than the actual habit itself. So, from the get-go, as readers, we sense there is a sea change a-coming.

 During the match itself, deLint explains to Helen Steeply why Dr. Tavis will not allow her (Helen) to interview Hal for her soft profile on Orin. “The point here for the best kids is to inculcate their sense that it’s never about being seen,” he says. In defining the protective elements of the E.T.A. (as engineered by Schtitt) deLint cites the media, fame and entertainment-obsessed fans as potential pitfalls for the athletes. As the match continues, Thierry Poutrincourt, a female prorector, weighs in on the topic. She says the athletes “must have something built into them along the path that will let them transcend it” (meaning the pitfalls of success). What deLint and Poutrincourt are essentially referring to is the closed system which Danielle had originally written about in her blog.

 I am going to go out on a limb here and say that the closed system CAN NOT WORK for eveyone. We learned last night that annular fusion’s main goal is to produce enough toxic waste to feed a system that kills the toxic waste. This, as we know, is tantamount to “doing somersaults with one hand nailed to the ground.” In other words, the system will exist but never thrive. I believe the same criteria can be applied to Schtitt’s philosophy for teaching young people tennis. His theory is predicated on the belief that all human beings have the ability to shut off their emotions, and exist only for the thing in which they are engaged. Fat chance, Gerhardt. Not every tennis player is hard-wired like Wayne. Emotions, like many things, run on a continuum, and a one-size-fits-all approach won’t work.

We cannot concentrate all of our efforts into one area. Thus, it is clear to me now that this novel is really about balance.

Randy Lenz goes through an evolution of sorts in this section of the text. Previously, he had played the role of a pathetic coke dealer who irritated Ennet House residents by repeatedly asking for the time. Halfway through the novel, we begin to see his powerlessness manifested as self-defeating and cruel.

Lenz keeps a secret stash of cocaine hidden in a large-print copy of the Principles of Psychology and the Gifford Lectures on Natural Religion. Although he has scaled way back on his coke intake, he still relies on it, secretively, to help him navigate certain emotional situations. But what is really troubling about Lenz is his penchant for killing animals on his solitary return walks from AA meetings.

The slaughter begins with rats eating leftovers by a dumpster. Then Lenz begins to trap cats in Hefty bags, ultimately using the steel-sak enforced bags to enclose the cats with a greater will to live. Inevitably, dogs become the focus of his fixation. Lens uses Gately’s leftover meatloaf as bat, induces the canines into thinking he is friendly, and then slits their throats. Nice guy, huh?

Paradoxically perhaps, Lenz establishes the beginnings of a friendship with Bruce Green. Green asks Lenz if he could walk with him after a meeting one night and Lenz agrees. The dynamics of their relationship are as such that Lenz rambles on incessantly while Green assumes the part of the active listener. The basis of their friendship is disrupted when Green spies Lenz killing a dog down the street from a Hawaiian-themed party.

I think it is worth mentioning that of all of the addicts we have encountered thus far in the novel, Lenz might be the first whose addiction is perhaps more outwardly destructive than self-defeating. Most of the addicts in the story (e.g. Kate, Joelle, Hal, Erdedy) stand only to hurt themselves in abusing drugs. (And while Orin’s sexual addiction requires the participation of another human being, at least it is not a life threatening endeavor.) For this reason, I find Lenz to be the most despicable character in the novel. In some ways, it begs the question, when does addiction transcend the individual and really become a societal problem?

I found the evolution of Don Gately to be quite compelling in this section of the text. As we are given access to the back story, we learn that Gately held some serious reservations about the efficacy of AA. In fact, “The idea that AA might actually work somehow unnerved him.”

 Reluctantly buying in to the program, Gately is barraged with an endless stream of clichés. He listens to personal stories about addiction and recovery on a nightly basis, some humorous (like the 50 year-old immigrant who became sentimental over a bowl movement) and others lurid (e.g. the woman who free-based throughout her pregnancy and carried her dead baby around until it had to be pried from her arms).

What surprises Gately about his eventual recovery is that he has managed to get well in spite of his unwillingness or inability to give himself over to a Higher Power. Perhaps the first “chink” in his armor becomes apparent when Eugenio Martinez reminds him that “your personal will is the web your Disease sits and spins in…” Gately’s fear that he might use substances again comes back to him when Joelle v. Dyne makes him question his sobriety by pointing out the trouble with the phrase “Here But for the Grace of God.”

 Still, Gately maintains his daily victuals like an automaton, offering up his “Please and Thank You prayers rather like a hitter that’s on a hitting streak and doesn’t change his jock or socks or pre-game routine for as long as he’s on the streak.” In spite of his reluctance to “give himself over,” he is assured by the Boston AAs that he is right where he is supposed to be.

 There are several aspects of the Gately scenario that I find note-worthy. In the first place, while recovering addicts are forbidden from laying the blame or citing cause for their disease, Gately is, in effect, doing the same thing by questioning the source of the program’s effectiveness. Also, I find it curious how Gately remains non-committal even after he learns that the DuPlessis case “vanished from any sort of investigative scene” (for apparent political reasons). However, Wallace pointed out earlier in the novel that the more intelligent the addict, the more problematic the recovery.  As I am not a trained psychologist, I can only assume this dilemma stem from an unwillingness to accept dogma as creed.

It has been suggested that readers who slog through the first 200 pages of Infinite Jest are rewarded with a second wind of sorts. At this point in the narrative, David Foster Wallace lays out a sweeping landscape of all things re/ to substance abuse and addiction. In no certain terms, he defines addiction as “either a disease or a mental illness or a spiritual condition [sic] or an O.C.D.-like disorder or an affective or character disorder” (203). He suggests substance-addicted people “have a compulsive and unhealthy relationship with their own thinking” (203). Perhaps as a cautionary note, he reminds us that gambling, work, shopping, shoplifting, sex, abstention, masturbation, food, exercise and prayer are may all be forms of “abusable escape” (202).

This section of the novel, for me, was affirming in a couple of ways. In the first place, DFW is giving a more detailed and sinister face to one of the underlying themes of the story.  By including theories, data, and anecdotes (within the context of the Ennet House), we are, at the very least, in just five pages of straight-forward prose, provided with a boarding pass for the voyage. As readers, we can take this information and apply it retroactively to characters we have already met, but also have it at our disposal as we move forward.

Naturally, twelve pages later, we see the first reference to Joelle van Dyne (a.k.a Madame P). When Wallace states, “The truth is that the hours before a suicide are usually an interval of enormous conceit and self involvement,” (220) we know Joelle’s motivation from the outset. Cloaked in a linen veil, Joelle sets out to procure the home-made implements for smoking enough free-base cocaine that she will “get so high that she’s going to fall down and stop breathing and turn blue and die” (222). At this point in the novel we have encountered multiple characters plagued by some form of addiction.  While Hal and Erdedy have their own rituals involving marijuana, Kate has attempted suicide on multiple occasions, and Himself actually succeeded in doing so. Was DFW making a statement vis-à-vis the connection between substance abuse/suicide connection?

 On her way to purchase drugs, Joelle meets a dapper black gentleman (Henry Louis Gates?) on the subway platform. He inquires about her veil and they exchange pleasantries. I must confess, reading this section I found myself hoping the stranger was imbued with a sense of wisdom that would somehow counteract Joelle’s hopeless predicament and make her want to live. What does it say about the circumstances of the characters in the novel, when I, as the reader, am trying to impose my own outcomes upon them? Are they all destined to die in the end? Is DFW saying life is hopeless and that we might as well expedite our ultimate fate?

Pages 200 – 300 were breezy by comparison, but I am still waiting for a second wind of a different sort. Perhaps this will come in the form of a character who has identified a reason to live.

Okay, so I have to admit that I’m coming to the party with some jaded perspectives on David Foster Wallace. In the first place, my attempts at reading Consider the Lobster were thwarted by the little voice in my head that kept saying, “he’s throwing in everything but the kitchen sink!” With respect to IJ, I am reluctant to hitch my wagon to a groundswell or a literary movement of any kind (e.g. Oprah’s Book Club). I guess you might say I am an insufferable skeptic who would rather “wait and see” what the hullabaloo is about. But I am also the type of reader who believes a novel should be able to stand on its own merits: required reading guides and footnotes strike me as superfluous and suck the life out of the flow of the narrative. What is the story? Is his post-modern form lost on me? As you can see, this novel is problematic for me on many levels.

Now that I have aired my “beefs,” I would like to comment on the recurring theme of “giving oneself away” which, I believe, we originally attributed to Schtitt. Nigh two hundred pages in and we’ve seen several examples. On page 107, Marathe tells Steeply, “Our attachments are our temple, what we worship, no? What we give ourselves to, what we invest with faith.” Ortho Stice echoes this on page 119: ”…it’s about how to reach down into parts of yourself you didn’t know were there and get down in there and live inside these parts.” (A concept reinforced in real life, I might add, in Night Studio: A Memoir of Philip Guston). Hal himself reiterates this approach while imparting rules for success to his underlings: “talent’s unconscious exercise becomes a way to escape yourself.” (173)

A few random thoughts…
Has anyone else noticed the recurring use of the word “dessicated”?
O.N.A.N – not to be betray my own Freudian fixations, but the definition of onanism is “masturbation” or “self-gratification”

Welcome to WordPress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!