Maybe the time has come to openly admit that I love David Foster Wallace’s writing, warts and all. If only there was a simple and straightforward way to describe such novel naïveté.
To have done with the old irony. To revel in our favourite postmodern pretensions. To pursue parodic self-reference for its own sake, no matter the cost. To simply enjoy what we enjoy despite and even because of its over elaborate efforts, its affected try hard cringe.
It’s on the tip of my tongue... but such proximally prandial pronouncements fail to emerge even as I salivate over otherwise worthy words. Imperfect poetry uttered in an intolerably obtuse manner, unapologetically assembled with childish, Pynchonesque glee.
Sometimes one wishes to say it straight up, and other times one wishes to take the scenic route, even if the scenery is a psychogeographic nightmare vista of hedonic depression and heroic boredom, littered with literary imperfections layered three feet deep.
Sometimes one just wants to wear one’s heart on ones sleeve, even when one’s suit is soaked with sweat, one’s headband is askew, and one’s anxious enthusiasm intoxicates one’s inner censor, spewing forth an unfiltered torrent of too too many ones.
Sometimes words are an egregiously excessive joy.
Sometimes you’ve got to go deep into the labyrinth of (formalist) irony to come out the other (expressivist) side.
Solidarity in... nope, still not got it. 🖖
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