David Foster Wallace doesnt hate the world, which is why I dont trust him. Hes way more talented than Ive allowed my posts about him to reflect, and he likes facts and figures, which is what a novel is for: to show us objects and their relation to each other. And he keeps track of the time of day and what the weather is doing, which is what Ernest Hemingway says a piece of fiction should do on every page. But he yearns for the world, hes nostalgic for the world, and the writer he most resembles, it seems to me, isnt Pynchon or Barth or DeLillo, but Updike - in spite of himself! He shares with Updike an obsessive need to kiss everything he sees, to be delighted by the quality of his kisses, to give every necessary object its intimate caress and enfolding adjective. Its a form of self-love, to cuddle the world in his embrace. James Baldwin works hard not to hate the world, but cant, cant not despise the stupid place, which is his integrity: and Flannery OConnor says integrity often lies in what you cant do. OConnor is headed for a transcendent plane and doesnt have time to indulge the world in its nonsense. Shes gothically amused by the terrible world, for which she really has no use. VS Naipaul! Hater of haters. Scrupulously loathing. So many US novels of the past 20 years seem to me to want finally to befriend the world, even if only to beg it to be a little kinder and gentler. It flatters the reader, this world-love: it says, If we could just hold each other. Not that I dont want to be held! Even by a novel. Though not really by a novel. In any case, I dont want to be pandered to, and there is something about the quality of Wallaces love and forgiveness that makes me suspect he was really quite a mean guy in his heart of novelist hearts.
Posted on: Thu, 21 Aug 2014 15:36:54 +0000
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