so2 – rhizomatic architecture

Consider the Lobster and Other Essays by David Foster Wallace
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

A collection of interesting essays by David Foster Wallace. Congruent with his position as a postmodernist, he explores these points of view by turning them around on themselves. At times kind of cynical but also ironic, Wallace is most successful when he is able to resolve this difference by finding an internal consistency. The last essay for example, “Host” he is able to resolve the issues of radio shock-jocks in the 90s working for Republican agendas and big business by focusing on the DJ himself. Likewise as with his following the McCain campaign trail. I suppose that is the only ending note, as it provides the only structural stability in his quest to detour the subject matter via a differentiation of point of view.

There is much to recommend here. We see a sensitive author in seek of stable subject matter. In essence, questioning the phenomenon here, by changing views and “considering” various different ways of seeing the lobster, be it historical, personal, biological, economic and so on. His writing is easy to read, interesting and funny, at times, though it can be annoyingly tongue in cheek, as when he makes up words. Still, that’s okay. Wallace seems more playful than he is in search of the Truth and that seems okay, as ultimately he recognizes this is up to whoever (the reader, the author, depends) anyway.

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Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

In a big way I did not like this book. While I found many parts of this book to be interesting and amusing, I believe that Wallace manages to present the alienation of his characters through the ironic filter of alienating his reader. I wanted to like it. I thought it would be great. But really, what seems to happen is that people behave in ways that promote their own self interest and in the process of doing so only really enact manipulations of processes that exist. Much of the self discovery and the tennis school training, really only set the stage for me as being anticipation of some kind of material process. Such as how to train. The film. The filming. The conversations about family, about other people. All of this seemed to be an endless insurmountable obstacle to a point where one wrecks oneself on too much pleasure. Sex, or drugs. Alcohol. Smoking pot. Trying to justify what one can do based on some kind of special knowledge of what one is supposed to be doing, which includes appearing to know what one is doing. The institutions involved also are guilty of this.

But maybe the cleverness didn’t inspire me. Didn’t amuse me. Whatever people like about it, I don’t get. So I do intend to re-read this book, later on. Just not now.

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