An informal / un-thought-out critique of David Foster Wallace, and suicide employment in a world with the iPhone, by Kyle H. Scott.

“It was my Jewish friend David who’d first recommended I read that purple, ugly book with –pretentious name and –green -balloon -cover, always crowding the ‘W’ area, -sectioned- off, – of shelf at whichever Barnes & Noble I’d happened -ever -to wander into. Thus, I still haven’t done, for (though, still unable to provide any concise analyses -referential – as to overall content inside a complete & material whole), I’m able to speak with utter certainty in saying say that, in themselves, Infinite Jest’s first 30 pages, read as nothing more -to me – than a short prelude as to what was -rapidly -to become a dehydrated showboat – [comparable only to Henry Miller]-’s psychological -,diversionary-, dialectic made to fit a 1,300 -page onslaught of compressed compressions for the sake of compression, describing less than nothing of what truly comprises the life of the everyday, common man; psychic -mutilation for the average typical /non-reader–, excepting that of re -quotable, select lines from select pages, –so to say they’ve been reading -in un-subtle -brag to all the fellow girls sitting ‘round -table at weekly Tuesday -brunch.
So, I decided I’d set that one down a little while; it was only happenstance that, months later, I came upon a copy of D. F. W’s ‘Oblivion,’-: a collection of short-stories; – wired, and browsing along through the aisles, along past the shelves of my current locality’s half- library. Having been unable to afford upkeep costs on the old one, the county’s budgeteers had opted for transport -to be moving -all books on -over- into the dilapidated b -ball -court /auditorium of the community center, on my hometown’s opposite end. And so, with all culminated dust, and dirt, and athletes -foot -of past -clustering up inside my nasal cavity, I moved, book-in-hand, over toward the bleacher -seat I’d already had, myself, pre -arranged, and sat.
The short stories were different from any -my former Wallacean -experience. Sharp, but displayed /sharing within a frame, at least, of a minimal -yet, magnanimous, -pathos. He was a different kind of man then; one seeming to have found a personal stride. And yet, the topic of my paper is not -biographical, except within the confines as to the topic of suicide. David Foster Wallace committed suicide at age 46. And so, I hereby move to dismiss any -and -all -preconceived convictions held by readers as -of the herd animal -type that have somehow made it into reading thus far, by boldly stating aloud that suicide is, in -itself, an act least of all common among those seeking anything else besides a source of final relief. So, what’s now most apparent -to me, retrospectively in view-within/-of Wallace’s contextual writing is the clearest of evidence of that -what plagued the author was -surely, a un -mitigable – imbalance, -hinging upon unruly chemicals inside of the brain.
After all, it’s not like, that -here in America, -the subject of suicidal depression is one, -not of such an everyday commonality, -so -as -to somehow make my thesis categorically untenable. Every day, I hear of this or that movie actor /musician, discussing in depth the topic of his /-or her own ongoing bouts -with / -of sustained and /- or clinical depression. And everyone seems to think that they need them, anti -depressants. And maybe they do. Hell, I was on 10 milligrams Lexapro for a year or so, before… Or take this 19 year -old mulatto girl whom I’ve been handing the shaft to, these past two, coupled weeks. All she ever does is talk -to me -about how badly she yearns for medication -relief and a therapist; how badly she’s wanted to die! I consider this girl’s case as being one of mere -sum -slothfulness. That’s the problem: Too many people here in America get a full 8 hours of rest each night, –So that all they want henceforth is to resign all future ambition, for merely the sake of a perfect, eternal sleep. And with Friedrich Nietzsche having cracked the nutshell -Christian code of morally /intellectually corrupt sustenance, we’re all pretty much in limbo as to whether -or not eternal hell -fire has yet to acquaint our flesh on a successful voyage to the last -and final -greeting.
So why, aside from over -abundance of sleep, are we all so depressed? Well, there’s also that not one single person inside of this dry -rot of a nation has ever once been made to sit and wait for something [for anything]. And then there’s Walt Disney. — a marketer’s multimedia playland of cute, and joyful youth being taught to keep expecting more and more of their dreams come true, faster than ever. And it’s the I phone, acting as media-mediator, ever -reminding us of all the beautiful things we still don’t have yet to attain [embodying, simply, even, a suitable number of accepted likes on a Facebook post in comparison to the girl or guy more popular than us]. Why’s that popular bitch get more likes than I do; why is she always so happy? They tell me to remain positive, but I can’t stay positive like her, even for her, because? Simply: You’re not like him or her. You’re a bastard child, born of a broken home, and the Disney channel narrative shall never fit snugly into your own motif reality. So, you’ll remain deceived by yourself and them throughout the majority of your childhood years, perhaps come -sometimes -close, even, to grasping the popularity -trophy continued onto a 2 -year stint inside of the local community college. But in the end, all of what you’ll more than likely achieve to do is leave alone, a tradesman or woman. with a sour taste in your rotted gums. I’m not like him or her, and my family’s not of her family because they [the others] have money.
We idolize celebs like Kylie Jenner, while [-in reality-] her head should be placed on a stick, as a mere monument inside of old museums, being descriptive, merely, to the admonished times of bourgeoisie decadence, in arrogant ages -past; a time when the rich were photographed gallivanting around, rampant and ugly, unaccountable like the hideous dinosaurs they now all are, all comfortably immune to any -and -all unanswered, perpetual acts of unjust and slut -like treachery their own.
Make no mistake, friends, that what we’ve all now -entered -into and / -or are setting ourselves in a successive march towards – is a roaring twenties / lost generation reboot inside of the twentieth century. And as the great Tyler Durden once said, ‘Our war is a spiritual war; The great depression, is our lives.’
But David Foster Wallace was, from day one, ideally well -off within the realm of personal, financial security. Both his parents were college professors and shuttled him off to the prestigious Amherst, his father’s alma mater. And so, in -like to his parents’ wishes, Wallace went on to become a college professor, highly esteemed. But could not thus have been, overall, the end -and rooted problem? Had David Foster Wallace had it too easy, was David Foster Wallace a victim of society, or was his illness, after all, merely a neurochemical question? Probably, a spectrum – a fraction of all three. For, not once in his life, had David Wallace ever faced the reality of truly, objective hopelessness. He didn’t have just an aesthetic plan B., but also one for C., D., E., G., etc., etc. Earlier on in this essay, I gave mention to -how Infinite Jest reminded me so much of Henry Miller. But what had Henry Miller spoke within the first, opening pages to Tropic of Cancer? “We are all alone here and dead. There will be more calamities, more death, more despair. Not the slightest indication of change anywhere. The cancer of time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves. The hero, then, is not Time, but Timelessness. We must get in step, a lock -step, toward the prison of death. There is no escape. The weather will not change… I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.
Life at the time, despite all suicide and death and cancer surrounding, for Henry Miller, was taking its natural course with him as merely an unwillfilly resigned passenger, and in the simple solidarity of thus truth, there was an over -abundant joy in him. And as for Wallace, -no doubt a genius -still not once having ever been able to break out fully, -to free himself -of the hierarchical chains of his own individually, undeserved privilege inside of the overwhelming vacuole a booming, technological revolution, unable to gather joy from simple hopelessness. He was never hungry, yet could never feed his own self, neither being the first nor the only one affected, caught up and trapped inside of the overwhelmingly indifferent vortex of capitalizing machinations and media within society abundant, result of the surging technological revolution.”

Author: Kyle Scott


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