Monday, October 1, 2012

Oblivion, by David Foster Wallace



It’s probably because I am a parent that I was so traumatized by Wallace’s shortest in this collection of short stories. Incarnations of Burned Children left a hollow feeling in me for days that I still cannot shake entirely. And I thought what else lays in store for me if I continue to read this collection. I went back to it. I thought well, it can’t get any worse than that. And I am glad that I did – the stories that followed are exceptional reads. All are quite good and a few are noteworthy for this brief space. “Oblivion” presents the conflict between a man and wife over his snoring. He insists that he is not snoring, that he is in fact wide awake when she routinely awakens and yells at him in the middle of the night. She insists that he is snoring and is in denial. We are narrated by the husband and the backdrop to the story is the wife’s family and the relationship between the man and his in-laws. The end is sudden and surprising. Another fine read is about a man who is preparing to kill himself. He goes to great trouble to narrate his “fraudulence” – why he is a fraud, when he learned that he was one (age 4, I recall?) and how it has impacted his relationships (with his girlfriends, psychiatrist) and with the world at large. These long, self-insightful passages reminded me passingly of Dostoevsky’s short story “Notes from the Underground,” one I couldn’t finish reading, where a misanthrope goes on and on about his not so positive relationship with people and the world. Wallace’s is a moody, but surprisingly uplifting, tale. The long narrative musings on time and what happens after death are brilliantly paced, atmospheric and tightly written. The name has “Neon” in it – cannot recall the complete title. The last story that I should mention is the “The Suffering Channel.” A great, galloping ride down modern America’s obsession with entertainment (echoing a theme from Infinite Jest) and fashion. Satirical and dark. Capturing the wonder of Wallace’s writing is an impossible task, you just have to read it for yourself. A review of this collection stated something like, “reading Wallace is like listening to the best kind of rock band” – that about sums it up.