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on May 19, 2013
That Foster Wallace is a knowledgeable, cryptic, original and mutiphasetic author is no news, as revealed by the depth with which he addresses the numerous and diverse subjects he writes about. This book is a mixed salad of dissimilar subjects, and the title refers to just one of them The Suppposedly Fun Thing is one of the best satires I ever read, possibly because, same as the author, I would never thimk of joining one of those hideous Caribbean Cruises. I really enjoyed it a lot. The David Lynch essay must be wonderful for Lynchphilliacs but not so for the average film medium- knowledgeable reader.I occasionally like watching a tennis match, but found so many pages of tennismania essentially boring, same as the essays on journalism and TV. But the Fun Thing is terrific and worthwhile buying the book just to read that.
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on May 20, 2013
The title story is a true work of art. It is a piercing paranoical review of modern pop culture. Wallace's writing is pure beauty, words dance with imagery.
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on September 13, 2012
I love the humanity of DFW's approach to journalism. He balances self-consciousness with the confidence of someone who has mastered his craft; he reveals just enough of his personality to keep me enthralled with the story and with the human who's telling it. I love his short fiction, too; it does get dark, however, so if you'd rather experience the lighter side of a great observer read "A Supposedly Fun Thing."
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on March 21, 2013
the book itself was brand new. It arrived on time in safe packaging. I LOVE David Foster Wallace. He IS wordy, but the descriptions are spot on! Thanks! john
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on July 5, 2013
Love his voice and his observations. What a shame that he isnt still around. Maybe I will even try the magnum opus somtime!
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on October 4, 2015
A review of A SUPPOSEDLY FUN THING THAT I WILL NEVER DO AGAIN (David Foster Wallace)
by Dr. Joseph Suglia, the Greatest Author in the World

I have said it before, and I will say it again: Writing was not one of David Foster Wallace's gifts. His métier was mathematics. David Foster Wallace was an absolutely dreadful writer of ponderous fictions and essays.

Wallace's essay-aggregate A SUPPOSEDLY FUN THING THAT I WILL NEVER DO AGAIN (1997) contains a number of vexing difficulties that should be addressed. I will focus here upon the two essays that addressed subjects to which I was attracted: "E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction" and "David Lynch Keeps His Head," a conspectus on the director's cinema before LOST HIGHWAY (1997).

In "E Unibus Pluram," Wallace warmly defends the Glass Teat in the way that only an American can. He sees very little wrong with television, other than the fact that it can become, in his words, a "malignant addiction," which does not imply, as Wallace takes pains to remind us, that it is "evil" or "hypnotizing" (38). Perish the thought.

Wallace exhorts American writers to watch television. Not merely should those who write WATCH television, Wallace contends; they should ABSORB television. Here is Wallace's inaugural argument (I will attempt to imitate his prose):

1. Writers of fiction are creepy oglers.
2. Television allows creepy, ogling fiction writers to spy on Americans and draw material from what they see.
3. Americans who appear on television know that they are being seen, so this is scopophilia, but not voyeurism in the classical sense. [Apparently, one is spying on average Americans when one watches actors and actresses on American television.]
4. For this reason, writers can spy without feeling uncomfortable and without feeling that what they're doing is morally problematic.

Wallace: "If we want to know what American normality is - i.e. what Americans want to regard as normal - we can trust television... [W]riters can have faith in television" (22).

Trust what is familiar, in other words. Embrace what is in front of you, to paraphrase. Most contemporary American writers grew up in the lambent glow of the cathode-ray tube, and in their sentences the reader can hear the jangle and buzz of television. David Foster Wallace was wrong. No, writers should NOT trust television. No, they should NOT have faith in the televisual eye, the eye that is seen but does not see. The language of television has long since colonized the minds of contemporary American writers, which is why David Foster Wallace, Chuck Klosterman, and Jonathan Safran Foer cannot focus on a single point for more than a paragraph, why Thomas Pynchon's clownish, jokey dialogue sounds as if it were culled from GILLIGAN'S ISLAND, and why Don DeLillo's portentous, pathos-glutted dialogue sounds as if it were siphoned from DRAGNET.

There are scattershot arguments here, the most salient one being that postmodern fiction canalizes televisual waste. That is my phrasing, not Wallace's. Wallace writes, simply and benevolently, that television and postmodern fiction "share roots" (65), as if they both sprang up at exactly the same time. They did not, of course. One cannot accept Wallace's argument without qualification. To revise his thesis: Postmodern fiction -- in particular, the writings of Leyner, DeLillo, Pynchon, Barth, Apple, Barthelme, and David Foster Wallace -- is inconceivable outside of a relation to television. But what would the ontogenesis of postmodern fiction matter, given that these fictions are anemic, execrably written, sickeningly smarmy, cloyingly self-conscious, and/or forgettable?

It did matter to Wallace, since he was a postmodernist fictionist. Let me enlarge an earlier statement. Wallace is saying (to paraphrase): "Embrace popular culture, or be embraced by popular culture!" The first pose is that of a hipster; the second pose is that of the Deluded Consumer. It would be otiose to claim that Wallace was not a hipster, when we are (mis)treated by so many hipsterisms, such as: "So then why do I get the in-joke? Because I, the viewer, outside the glass with the rest of the Audience, am IN on the in-joke" (32). Or, in a paragraph in which he nods fraternally to the "campus hipsters" (76) who read him and read (past tense) Leyner: "We can resolve the problem [of being trapped in the televisual aura] by celebrating it. Transcend feelings of mass-defined angst [sic] by genuflecting to them. We can be REVERENTLY IRONIC" (Ibid.). Again: Embrace popular culture, or be embraced by popular culture. That is your false dilemma. If you want others to think that you are special (every hipster's secret desire), watch television with a REVERENT IRONY. Wallace's hipper-than-thou sanctimoniousness is smeared over every page.

Now let me turn to the Lynch essay. There is one insightful remark here, namely Wallace's observation that Lynch's cinema has a "clear relation" (197) to Abstract Expressionism and the cinema of German Expressionism. There are many more serious weaknesses and imprecisions.

Wallace: "Except now for Richard Pryor, has there ever been even like ONE black person in a David Lynch movie? ... I.e. why are Lynch's movies all so WHITE? ... The likely answer is that Lynch's movies are essentially apolitical" (189).

To say that there are no black people in Lynch's gentrified neighborhood is ignorance. The truth is that at least one African-American appeared in the Lynchian universe before LOST HIGHWAY: Gregg Dandridge, who is very much an African-American, played Bobbie Ray Lemon in WILD AT HEART (1990). How could Wallace have forgotten the opening cataclysm, the cataclysmic opening of WILD AT HEART? Who could forget Sailor Ripley slamming Bobbie Ray Lemon's head against a staircase railing and then against a floor until his head bursts, splattering like a splitting watermelon?

To say that Lynch's films are apolitical is innocence. No work of art is apolitical, because all art is political. How could Wallace have missed Lynch's heartlandish downhomeness? How could he have failed to notice Lynch's repulsed fascination with the muck and the slime, with the louche underworld that lies beneath the well-trimmed lawns that line Lynch's suburban streets? And how could he have failed to draw a political conclusion from this repulsed fascination, from this fascinated repulsion?

Let me commend these unconvincing essays to the undiscriminating reader. Everything collected here is nothing if not badly written, particularly "Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away from It All," a hipsterish pamphlet about Midwestern state fairs that would not have existed were it not for David Byrne's TRUE STORIES (1986), both the film and the book. It is my hope that David Foster Wallace will someday be remembered as the talented mathematician he was and not as the brilliant fictionist and essayist he was not.

Dr. Joseph Suglia, the Greatest Author in the World
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