“Have you heard of David Foster Wallace?”
When I shook my head her eyes flashed.
“You have to read David Foster Wallace.”
Young enough to be my daughter, she had taken a literature class at Yale this year.
“You have to read Infinite Jest,” she said, nodding her head, waiting for me to do the same. When I did, she smiled, happy to have enlightened me.
I should have been suspicious. I remember discovering Dante's Inferno in my freshman humanities class at Reed College.
“Dad, have you read Dante's Inferno?”
“Yes, yes,” he replied, excited, I presumed, by the prospect of talking about the book.
“The John Ciardi translation?”
“No, I think it was Pope.”
“Oh, you have to read the Ciardi translation.”
College does that to teenagers, especially the top schools, the ones people “oh my” when you tell them where you go to school. Did the sweet, young girl I had known in high school transform into a snobby intellectual? I chose not to believe it. She could not have become so cynical, though I know many a California-born who has been soured into New York easterner in less than two years.
Instead, I reminded myself of Kuhn's Structure of Scientific Revolutions. I was, after all, old and out-of-date, conservative by any college student's measure. I would use this offered opportunity to freshen my college training, and perhaps experience the novelty of youth again.
I did my Internet research: David Foster Wallace (never referred to as David Wallace for some reason) attempted suicide at age 17, was put on anti-depressants, which he took until he was in his 40's, succeeding at age 44 at hanging himself.
Depression is a common reference point for youth today. I wondered if David Foster Wallace's success at a recurring young-adult fantasy had something to do with his appeal.
“Have you ever read David Foster Wallace?” I asked her father.
“No, not that I remember. My daughter suggested I read Infinite Jest,” he added.
“That's him.”
“Who?”
“David Foster Wallace,” I said. “I saw him on YouTube, a graduation speech about young fish not knowing what water is. I ordered the reader. Watch the YouTube. I liked it.”
I went in to Asheville on Friday, stopped in at Malaprop's Book Store, where three young ladies, about college age, were each behind their register with nobody in line to buy a book. I was confused as to which I should ask about David Foster Wallace, but the middle woman looked up in an inviting way that guided me to her station.
“Do you have any books by David Foster Wallace?” I asked.
I searched her expression for acknowledgment, as if I knew the secret code.
“I'm sure we have Infinite Jest,” the young lady to the right answered, as the middle one tapped the long name into her inventory search.
“Did any of you read Infinite Jest?” I asked, now catching the attention ot the third young woman.
“Nope,” the woman on the right said, in a tone that preempted any judgment I might have.
“No,” apologized the middle young lady.
“I read a third of it, but just couldn't get in to the story,” the lady on the left said.
“How far did you get in the Harry Potter series?” I asked, knowing these kids were part of the Potter generation.
“Got up to book three,” said the lady who didn't make it through Infinite Jest.
“Me too,” I said, nodding in agreement.
“Didn't read it,” said the lady on the right.
I was about to ask her what she did read, but instead turned to the left lady.
“First book, real tight. Second one, looser. By the third book, no editor.”
The lady in the middle placed her finger on her screen and lifted her head to look at me.
“I loved all of them,” she said, sounding a bit defensive.
“That's okay,” I said, trying not to sound condescending, but sharing a slight roll of the eyes with the young lady on the left.
“Let me show you where to find David Foster Wallace,” she said. “Follow me.”
She hopped off her stool and around the corner. I met up with her, noticed she was limping, saw the cast on her foot.
“Hope you're foot's okay,” I say, relieved that my thoughtless stare had found a cast.
“It's just fine,” she said, walking faster, as if to avoid conversation.
There were three copies of Infinite Jest, a book well suited for a door stop or pressing flowers. I scanned the end pages, numbered over 1,000. Just the thought of starting a book this long made my eyes droop and my mind drift drowsey. It was the same reaction I had to Peloponesion Wars by Thucydides back in college. I opened to the middle of Infinite Jest, started reading a paragraph...
Perhaps something shorter to start with, I thought, returning the log to the woodpile.
I found a copy of the David Foster Wallace Reader I had ordered. It was full of shorter pieces.
“Just to get warmed up,” I told myself, “before taking the big plunge.”
In college, I was the school bus driver, so I had lots of time to read between taking and returning students to off-campus gym classes. I remember eight hours one Saturday, waiting during an all-day rock-climbing class, sitting in the bus, reading who killed who in Peloponesian Wars.
Now I'm retired. Maybe that's just the ticket for David Foster Wallace.
