After more than a thousand pages of signature prose from one of America's most distinctive literary voices during the past two decades, I'm left with two prevailing emotions setting up permanent shop in my gut: jealousy and despair.
These feelings have nothing to do with the brilliantly constructed dystopic future David Foster Wallace brings to life in "Infinite Jest," his epic novel published to nearly universal acclaim back in 1996. They have everything to do with witnessing a depressingly intimate look at substance addiction, narrative brilliance and synaptic hyperactivity from a writer, in his early 30s, who showed limitless promise and was taken far too early from this world.
To the uninitiated Wallace reader, Infinite Jest will sound in summation like the ramblings of a madman. The plot, so convoluted it prompted drawings of story maps resembling unpopped blackheads (warning: spoilers), centers geographically around a substance-abuse halfway house and academy for precocious and talented tennis-playing preteens in central Boston following the consolidation of North America into one nation-state. People remain glued to their entertainment screens (in a kind of cultural foresight that could only come from a writer so in-tune with social strata he turned an essay about cruise ships into a discussion of the loneliness of human existence) and the accumulation of garbage along the former U.S./Canadian border has turned the area into an exotic wasteland, where plants tower over humans and giant feral hamsters (yes) roam the countryside.
What keeps Wallace from dwelling in the absurd (that is to say, when he doesn't want to dwell in the absurd - as readers of DFW have come to expect, there are moments of comic hilarity where the absurd is precisely the initiating agent, but only when the author has a point to make) is the development of his characters. The Incandenza family is perhaps the most wildly realized nuclear unit in modern literature, but the pathos does not end there. Every character in the Enfield Tennis Academy (one of the novel's settings, where tennis prodigies - like DFW himself - go to hone their skills as they foster dreams of making 'the show') is fully realized. Michael Pemulus, a substance fiend and mathematical wunderkind, could flesh out his own novel in this fully realized world. This is to say nothing of Donald Gately, the square-headed football player who's reached his "rock bottom" on oral narcotics and serves as house manager at Ennet House, the nearby halfway facility for other substance abusers on the mend.
There is a scene in roughly the final 2/3 of the novel that perfectly encapsulates Wallace's brilliant fiction. The tennis youngsters are assembled on one of the academy's courts playing a game with tube socks, tennis rackets and balls that is essentially a play version of the kind of thermonuclear warfare that haunts Wallace's world on the brink, where the U.S. president is a lounge singer and Canadian officials are falling like flies to a band of wheelchair assassins asserting Quebec independence. Pemulus is the star of the show, developing a mathematical program that determines the payload of each nation and where their weapons caches are stored. Each team selects a "lobber" to send cruise missiles (tennis balls) at the other nations.
It's a tradition that marks every Interdependence Day in the novel, the day when American/Canadian unity is observed and the normal frenzied pace of the academy grinds to a halt. Wallace describes the game, "Eschaton," with a level of horrifying detail, that shifts effortlessly into comic relief as we're reminded these are 12-year-olds playing this game signifying mutually assured destruction. The game crescendos into a schoolyard brawl, hastening the drug testing that brings the novel's to its quasi-conclusion.
I say quasi because Wallace pulls a Tarantino on the reader, leading with details in the first few pages that become of utter importance in the novel's final moments. I read the hefty novel over a period of two months (I blame Grand Theft Auto and the arrival of a certain new feline companion) and was puzzled by the novel's seeming lack of resolution. I had to recrack the first few pages after finishing last night, reminding myself of the puzzles solved (or seeming to be solved) in the novel's opening scenes. A word of warning, then: Infinite Jest will command your full attention. Grant it the respect it deserves.
I've been a fan of Wallace's nonfiction ever since I read the opening lines to "Consider the Lobster" many years ago. I've been telling myself I'm making a grand error not cracking his fiction until now. "Infinite Jest" is a monster accomplishment that will leave you questioning what the role of entertainment is in your life and what constitutes an addiction in this new world of constant media dependence. It is darkly hilarious, deeply insightful, and simply a stunning masterwork of American fiction. Read it now.
Verdict: 5/5 stars
Showing posts with label literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label literature. Show all posts
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Page-turning: A Review of Murakami's 1Q84
I will apologize in advance. This may be the most rambling, incoherent and needlessly shallow entry to a blog that is intentionally shallow. But I can't get Murakami out of my head, and I think it will be therapeutic to say a few things in this arena.
1Q84, like The Wind-up Bird Chronicle before it, is less of a novel and more of an undertaking — a surreal leap down the well (or fire escape, as imagery would have it in this particular novel) made by the reader. In the past, Murakami has been known to cushion the blow at the bottom just enough that my mind hasn't been spinning into an existential funk by the end of his work. And ultimately, that's what I've loved about his compositions. Post-modern to a "t," but always providing you with a concrete and defensible answer as to what the meaning of the piece of literature lying before you.
When I put down 1Q84, a 925-page epic in every sense of the word, at 11:30 p.m. last night, I had no comforting sense of meaning as to what I had just read. I knew it was impressive, and I was left with the general feeling and tone of a Murakami work. Some reviewers have suggested that to read 1Q84 is to experience contemporary Japanese culture. If that's the case, I'm not sure an international community will ever exist.
I've always loved Murakami because, in spite of his clearly different cultural and historical background, I felt like we were kindred spirits. I mean, hell, the guy even wrote a book about writing and running, my two favorite contemplative activities. His imagery and wit mimic those of Chandler and Vonnegut, rather than Basho or Kyoden. There is something that is very American and timeless about 1Q84, and at the same time nothing is familiar.
As an example, the passage of time and pacing is completely different in Murakami than in any Western author I've ever read. It seems rather pithy to talk about pacing in a novel that comprises half the pagination of your usual dictionary, but it's true. It was noticeable in The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, what with Toru spending half his time pondering his own existence in the bottom of a well, doing nothing in particular, but even at moments of great urgency in 1Q84 something is pulling the action back. The book's ultimate chase scene may not be a chase at all, depending on how you interpret the final five or six chapters of the work.
SPOILERS AHEAD! You've been warned...
To me, the death of Ushikawa is the biggest indicator that Tengo and Aomame return to a different world at the end of the novel. I haven't quite worked out in my mind what it means that both seem to have some power or quality to warp the world around them through the power of composition. Receiver/Perceiver is all mixed up in my mind at present. But Ushikawa's appearance in The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, which (from what I remember) takes place after the events of 1Q84 (my timeline could be off here) seems to suggest that the "world" Tengo and Aomame leave at the end of the novel is not the same world as that which Toru inhabits.
But, of course, there's nothing to say that there aren't multiple realities at play in Murakami's universe. In fact, I'd say he probably welcomes the idea.
The shining achievement of 1Q84 is not as a love story, in my opinion. Yes, the resolution of the plot between Tengo and Aomame is needed to conclude the novel and the plotline that is established rather early in the text. In fact, the first twenty pages are probably the most earnest and urgent of the entire work.
Murakami shines when he brings us into the world of Ushikawa, a character that for all intents and purposes is impossible of producing empathy. Yet, in the novel's third volume (it's most interesting, though perhaps not the best written), Ushikawa is introduced as a third prism through which the tale of Aomame and Tengo plays out. The slight wrinkle in the narrative from the previous two volumes allows Murakami room to explore, and it is in the vague chronicle of Ushikawa that the most fruitful exploration of the human experience occurs in the novel.
After all, Ushikawa is the only character besides Aomame and Tengo (and our omniscient narrator) who can tell that there are two moons hanging in the sky. He is the only one we know for sure inhabits the same ethereal plain as our two principal characters. Murakami legitimizes him as a narrative force to deftly balance the final third of his novel, which takes place in a much more truncated time table than its first two parts. He weaves a story that allows us pity for a man who is essentially a personification of all that is contemptible about the human race. His lack of morals even physically manifests itself in his appearance.
Perhaps most telling is the pity that Tamaru shows Ushikawa after killing him. Tamaru is a man that can best be described as cold and calculated — we know he's gay, but we never see any kind of human compassion from him. His relationship with Aomame seems to be purely driven by curiosity, and while he does eventually enable the meeting between her and Tengo, it's less out of a need to see love requited than simple devotion to his job. Only in Tamaru's expression of remorse for killing Ushikawa — even as a seasoned killer — do we see his emotion played out in a tangible way. This speaks volumes, I think, for how Murakami wants us to interpret his sad sack of a character.
1Q84 lacks the historical significance of Wind-up Bird. It's central image — the two moons — doesn't resonate with me in the same way Toru's birthmark or his trips down the well seemed to. In many cases, it seems as though Murakami is recycling imagery in the work to say things he's said in more poignant ways in the past. But it is 1Q84's ability to leave me staring at the wall, wondering just how each of its narrative threads work together, that impresses the most. Who are the Little People? Are they a metaphor, as described in the meta-fiction personal reflections of Tengo at the end of the novel? Does 1Q84 exist? Where are Tengo and Aomame at the end of the novel? When are Tengo and Aomame at the end of the novel?
The mind recoils in horror. I'm going to sleep under two moons tonight, that's for sure.
Rating: 4.5/5 stars
1Q84, like The Wind-up Bird Chronicle before it, is less of a novel and more of an undertaking — a surreal leap down the well (or fire escape, as imagery would have it in this particular novel) made by the reader. In the past, Murakami has been known to cushion the blow at the bottom just enough that my mind hasn't been spinning into an existential funk by the end of his work. And ultimately, that's what I've loved about his compositions. Post-modern to a "t," but always providing you with a concrete and defensible answer as to what the meaning of the piece of literature lying before you.
When I put down 1Q84, a 925-page epic in every sense of the word, at 11:30 p.m. last night, I had no comforting sense of meaning as to what I had just read. I knew it was impressive, and I was left with the general feeling and tone of a Murakami work. Some reviewers have suggested that to read 1Q84 is to experience contemporary Japanese culture. If that's the case, I'm not sure an international community will ever exist.
I've always loved Murakami because, in spite of his clearly different cultural and historical background, I felt like we were kindred spirits. I mean, hell, the guy even wrote a book about writing and running, my two favorite contemplative activities. His imagery and wit mimic those of Chandler and Vonnegut, rather than Basho or Kyoden. There is something that is very American and timeless about 1Q84, and at the same time nothing is familiar.
As an example, the passage of time and pacing is completely different in Murakami than in any Western author I've ever read. It seems rather pithy to talk about pacing in a novel that comprises half the pagination of your usual dictionary, but it's true. It was noticeable in The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, what with Toru spending half his time pondering his own existence in the bottom of a well, doing nothing in particular, but even at moments of great urgency in 1Q84 something is pulling the action back. The book's ultimate chase scene may not be a chase at all, depending on how you interpret the final five or six chapters of the work.
SPOILERS AHEAD! You've been warned...
To me, the death of Ushikawa is the biggest indicator that Tengo and Aomame return to a different world at the end of the novel. I haven't quite worked out in my mind what it means that both seem to have some power or quality to warp the world around them through the power of composition. Receiver/Perceiver is all mixed up in my mind at present. But Ushikawa's appearance in The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, which (from what I remember) takes place after the events of 1Q84 (my timeline could be off here) seems to suggest that the "world" Tengo and Aomame leave at the end of the novel is not the same world as that which Toru inhabits.
But, of course, there's nothing to say that there aren't multiple realities at play in Murakami's universe. In fact, I'd say he probably welcomes the idea.
The shining achievement of 1Q84 is not as a love story, in my opinion. Yes, the resolution of the plot between Tengo and Aomame is needed to conclude the novel and the plotline that is established rather early in the text. In fact, the first twenty pages are probably the most earnest and urgent of the entire work.
Murakami shines when he brings us into the world of Ushikawa, a character that for all intents and purposes is impossible of producing empathy. Yet, in the novel's third volume (it's most interesting, though perhaps not the best written), Ushikawa is introduced as a third prism through which the tale of Aomame and Tengo plays out. The slight wrinkle in the narrative from the previous two volumes allows Murakami room to explore, and it is in the vague chronicle of Ushikawa that the most fruitful exploration of the human experience occurs in the novel.
After all, Ushikawa is the only character besides Aomame and Tengo (and our omniscient narrator) who can tell that there are two moons hanging in the sky. He is the only one we know for sure inhabits the same ethereal plain as our two principal characters. Murakami legitimizes him as a narrative force to deftly balance the final third of his novel, which takes place in a much more truncated time table than its first two parts. He weaves a story that allows us pity for a man who is essentially a personification of all that is contemptible about the human race. His lack of morals even physically manifests itself in his appearance.
Perhaps most telling is the pity that Tamaru shows Ushikawa after killing him. Tamaru is a man that can best be described as cold and calculated — we know he's gay, but we never see any kind of human compassion from him. His relationship with Aomame seems to be purely driven by curiosity, and while he does eventually enable the meeting between her and Tengo, it's less out of a need to see love requited than simple devotion to his job. Only in Tamaru's expression of remorse for killing Ushikawa — even as a seasoned killer — do we see his emotion played out in a tangible way. This speaks volumes, I think, for how Murakami wants us to interpret his sad sack of a character.
1Q84 lacks the historical significance of Wind-up Bird. It's central image — the two moons — doesn't resonate with me in the same way Toru's birthmark or his trips down the well seemed to. In many cases, it seems as though Murakami is recycling imagery in the work to say things he's said in more poignant ways in the past. But it is 1Q84's ability to leave me staring at the wall, wondering just how each of its narrative threads work together, that impresses the most. Who are the Little People? Are they a metaphor, as described in the meta-fiction personal reflections of Tengo at the end of the novel? Does 1Q84 exist? Where are Tengo and Aomame at the end of the novel? When are Tengo and Aomame at the end of the novel?
The mind recoils in horror. I'm going to sleep under two moons tonight, that's for sure.
Rating: 4.5/5 stars
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