A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again – David Foster Wallace

 

Wallace’s signature style is dense and involved, though not unfriendly- there is often simply an over-saturation of detail that some may find enriching, others a nuisance. His obsessive, ironical manner is ideally suited to exploring the mythic substructures of popular culture; in this respect, it is kind of like reading Mark Twain through the prism of Roland Barthes’ ‘Mythologies’.

The titular essay (also published under the name ‘Shipping out’) is rightfully celebrated for portraying the raucous horrors of life onboard a modern cruise-ship. (The Lebanese bag handler’s double-bind is one of many highlights.) The essay on Michael Joyce, a young tennis professional in the nineties, is startlingly honest -’The restrictions on his life have been, in my opinion, grotesque’ – and seem to question quite powerfully the deep meaning we attach to sporting success, not without appreciating its irrational glory. Wallace also has the gift of frequently ending on arresting images, as in his brutally funny depiction of the Illinois State Fair. These offer nice summations of the preceding, and though sometimes they appear obtrusively metaphorical, more often than not they capture something essential about his subject.

I’d advise against reading the collection with constant reference to the author’s unhappy biography, or in an effort to relate everything to postmodern disquisitions. It is, in itself, great enjoyment – and has even given me the useful term ‘nautical snot’, which describes the bilious slime boaters will occasionally find on rope perfectly.