A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments Author: Visit Amazon's David Foster Wallace Page | Language: English | ISBN:
0316925284 | Format: PDF
A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments Description
Amazon.com Review
David Foster Wallace made quite a splash in 1996 with his massive novel,
Infinite Jest. Now he's back with a collection of essays entitled
A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. In addition to a razor-sharp writing style, Wallace has a mercurial mind that lights on many subjects. His seven essays travel from a state fair in Illinois to a cruise ship in the Caribbean, explore how television affects literature and what makes film auteur David Lynch tick, and deconstruct deconstructionism and find the intersection between tornadoes and tennis.
These eclectic interests are enhanced by an eye (and nose) for detail: "I have seen sucrose beaches and water a very bright blue. I have seen an all-red leisure suit with flared lapels. I have smelled what suntan lotion smells like spread over 21,000 pounds of hot flesh . . ." It's evident that Wallace revels in both the life of the mind and the peculiarities of his fellows; in A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again he celebrates both.
--This text refers to the
Hardcover
edition.
From Publishers Weekly
Like the tennis champs who fascinate him, novelist Wallace (Infinite Jest; The Broom of the System) makes what he does look effortless and yet inspired. His instinct for the colloquial puts his masters Pynchon and DeLillo to shame, and the humane sobriety that he brings to his subjects-fictional or factual-should serve as a model to anyone writing cultural comment, whether it takes the form of stories or of essays like these. Readers of Wallace's fiction will take special interest in this collection: critics have already mined "Derivative Sport in Tornado Alley" (Wallace's memoir of his tennis-playing days) for the biographical sources of Infinite Jest. The witty, insightful essays on David Lynch and TV are a reminder of how thoroughly Wallace has internalized the writing-and thinking-habits of Stanley Cavell, the plain-language philosopher at Harvard, Wallace's alma mater. The reportage (on the Illinois State Fair, the Canadian Open and a Caribbean Cruise) is perhaps best described as post-gonzo: funny, slight and self-conscious without Norman Mailer's or Hunter Thompson's braggadocio. Only in the more academic essays, on Dostoyevski and the scholar H.L. Hix, does Wallace's gee-whiz modesty get in the way of his arguments. Still, even these have their moments: at the end of the Dostoyevski essay, Wallace blurts out that he wants "passionately serious ideological contemporary fiction [that is] also ingenious and radiantly transcendent fiction." From most writers, that would be hot air; from one as honest, subtle and ambitious as Wallace, it has the sound of a promise.
Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.
--This text refers to the
Hardcover
edition.
See all Editorial Reviews
- Paperback: 368 pages
- Publisher: Back Bay Books; Reprint edition (February 2, 1998)
- Language: English
- ISBN-10: 0316925284
- ISBN-13: 978-0316925280
- Product Dimensions: 9.2 x 6 x 1 inches
- Shipping Weight: 14.4 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
"A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again" is a collection of seven essays originally published between 1992 and 1996. They range over a variety of topics and, while somewhat uneven in quality, demonstrate that David Foster Wallace is one of contemporary America's most intelligent and imaginative writers.
The best of the essays are two that were originally published in Harper's magazine, "Getting Away from Being Pretty Much Away from It All" and the title essay, "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again".
In "Getting Away from Being Pretty Much Away from It All", Wallace relates a visit to the Illinois State Fair in 1993 in a style that alternates between intellectual ponderousness and hilariously obsessive description and commentary on the minutest details of his experience. Approaching his task with the wonder of a child, Wallace, in a passage illustrative of his style (or at least one aspect of it), reflects: "One of the few things I still miss from my Midwest childhood was this weird, deluded but unshakable conviction that everything around me existed all and only For Me. Am I the only one who had this queer deep sense as a kid?-that everything exterior to me existed only insofar as it affected me somehow?-that all things were somehow, via some occult adult activity, specially arranged for my benefit? . . . The child leaves a room, and now everything in that room, once he's no longer there to see it, melts away into some void of potential or else (my personal childhood theory) is trundled away by occult adults and stored until the child's reentry into the room recalls it all back into animate service.
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