When I was embarking on my American travels earlier in the year, a friend of mine gave me a book called Infinite Jest to read with the warning that it would take over my life. They were not wrong. Infinite Jest has become one of my favourite books, and the knowledge that its author, David Foster Wallace, committed suicide while writing its follow up came as a hammer blow to me. He did, however, leave quite a few non-fiction books behind him, including the essay collection I’m reviewing now.
The essays cover a large range of subjects, from postmodern literary theory to tennis, from the films of David Lynch to a luxury Caribbean cruise (the title essay). For an enthusiast such as myself, this was heaven. David Foster Wallace’s ability to write means he can tackle any subject and make it fascinating. His detailed description of thrill rides at the Illinois state fair are illuminated by his deep fear of going on rollercoasters. Even watching others taking part leaves him feeling nauseous. He lists cheesy t-shirt slogans he sees and theorises at length on the motivation the wearer has to define themselves in this way. At all times, subjects are tackled with extreme honesty. He is intent on letting you in on his train of thought, at times willingly prepared to sacrifice your opinion of him in doing so,
Despite being non-fiction, the joys of Foster Wallace’s prose are the same. This includes my personal favourite: the footnotes. He turns the use of footnotes into an art form, giving the footnotes their own footnotes, and letting them wander on for pages at a time, overtaking and overshadowing the main text. This happens so frequently that while reading on the tube, I noticed some people pointing and laughing at me as I turned backwards and forwards between pages, trying to keep up with the footnotes. The use of language constantly made me giggle like a school girl, his viewpoint on almost any subject seems to come from a viewpoint so uniquely different to mine. Many of the essays were composed during the writing of Infinite Jest, yet the quality of the essays does not suffer. This, to me, confirms two things. First, that this guy has an unrivalled gift for writing. Second, that Ill never make it as a writer.
The cult of David Foster Wallace will continue to grow. I already found it to be considerably larger than I thought when buying this book - as evidenced by the snobby book assistant looking at me in disbelief that I was only just buying this book now. Of course talk of cults is nonsense, but for me, having discovered this essay collection, I’m just excited that there are more to follow…
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