Framed to Fail and Die For Us - The Staged Failure of David Foster Wallace's "Infinite Jest"
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Transcript of Framed to Fail and Die For Us - The Staged Failure of David Foster Wallace's "Infinite Jest"
Framed to Fail and Die For Us
The staged failure of David Foster
Wallace’s Infinite Jest
Alex Jenkins: American Literature MA, 2011/12
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Framed to Fail and Die For Us: The Staged Failure of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest
Candidate no. 3047148
M.A. American Literature
14,966 Words
Dissertation submitted in partial fulfilment of the requirements of the degree of Master of Arts
© This copy of the thesis has been supplied on condition that anyone who consults it is understood to recognise that its copyright rests with the author and that no quotation from the thesis, nor any information derived therefrom, may be published without the author’s prior
written consent.
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In memoriam David Foster Wallace
ut te postremo donarem munere mortis et mutam nequiquam alloquerer cinerem
Catullus, ‘Carmen 101’
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Table of Contents
TEXTUAL NOTE 5
INTRODUCTION: STAGED FAILURE 6
A CONSUMMATION DEVOUTLY EQUIVOCAL: SEDUCTION IN INFINITE JEST 12
THE PRISON OF SELF: INFINITE JEST AND IRONY 22
MOURNING BECOMES INFINITE 33
THE WORD TO COME: A CANTOR OF INFINITE JEST 44
AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENT 49
WORKS CONSULTED 50 PRIMARY TEXTS 50 SECONDARY TEXTS 52 WEBSITES 53
Textual Note
In each of this dissertation’s parts, the first reference to the novel will be written in full
– viz. Infinite Jest – and subsequent references will use the abbreviation IJ. All
references to the novel will be parenthetical in-‐text – e.g., (IJ 234). To avoid confusion
between the novel Infinite Jest and the film cartridge, the latter will be placed within
double quote marks – viz. “Infinite Jest”. Unless noted otherwise, all italics, unorthodox
capitalizations, and instances of non-‐standard grammar or syntax in quotes are sic.
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Introduction: Staged Failure
The telling time our task is; time’s some part Not all, but we were framed to fail and die – One spell and well that one. There, ah thereby Is comfort’s carol of all or woe’s worst smart.1
‘You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough’,
intoned William Blake, and his words seem an appropriate epigraph for Infinite Jest
because it is a novel that persistently stages its own failure by showing its reader more
than enough.2 While David Foster Wallace admired Dostoevsky’s ability to write
‘morally passionate, passionately moral’ fiction, he is conscious how certain
postmodern attitudes towards textuality – a reliance on irony, metafiction, pastiche,
and hyperreality to disrupt traditional notions of mimesis – compromise this aesthetic
goal.3 IJ employs all these formal topoi because they are inesacapable; they are too
deeply ingrained, and readers are consequently often suspicious of texts offering
unequivocal moral or ideological valences. As Wallace argued in the same essay,
‘[contemporary] fiction writers […] won’t (can’t) dare try to use serious art to advance
ideologies.’4 One cannot, however, obviate this problem by writing incantatory
Dostoevskian prose, because the cultural landscape is too dissimilar; Wallace’s
solution is to intensify the problem in order to transcend it. As A.O. Scott puts it, ‘if one
way to escape from the blind alley of postmodern self-‐consciousness is simply to turn
around and walk in another direction […] Wallace prefers to forge ahead in hopes of
breaking through to the other side, whatever that may be.’5
1 G.M. Hopkins, ‘To his Watch’, in Bartleby.com <http://www.bartleby.com/122/70.html> [accessed 23 September 2012] (lines 5-‐8) 2 ‘The Marriage of Heaven and Hell’, in Blake: The Complete Poems, ed. by W.H. Stevenson, 3rd edn (Harlow: Pearson Education Ltd., 2007), pp. 106-‐130 (p. 115). 3 David Foster Wallace, ‘Joseph Frank’s Dostoevsky’, in Consider the Lobster and Other Essays (London: Abacus, 2007), p. 274. 4 ibid. 5 ‘The Panic of Influence’, New York Review of Books, 10 February 2000, <http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2000/feb/10/the-‐panic-‐of-‐influence>
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This approach is risky. To use apparently exhausted tropes seems a dubious
cure for enervation, and by deliberately setting itself up to fail, a text may simply fail. It
also seems perverse to consider such a bravura novel in terms of its failure. Wallace,
however, originally wanted his novel to be subtitled “A Failed Entertainment”.6 IJ
avers, ‘entertainment is blind’: it can never see whom it entertains, and offers only a
simulacrum of an affective, two-‐way relationship (IJ 237). Thus it is both logical and
laudable to construct a novel that deliberately flouts conventions of entertainment. IJ
is thematically challenging, and is replete with scenes of depression, abuse, and
violence; often the novel acknowledges that representing these horrors artistically is
impossible. Clinical depression is ‘probably mostly indescribable except as a sort of
double bind in which any/all of the alternatives we associate with human agency […]
are not just unpleasant but literally horrible (IJ 696).’ IJ embodies the paradox of
describing the indescribable and attempts to solve it through a poetics of affect; by
making the reader feel depression’s double bind, the text potentiates the affect she
feels.
IJ also uses endnotes and formal irony to ‘interrupt the flow of the narrative and
call attention to the work qua performance, encourag[ing] readers to become
conscious of their own performances as readers.’7 Wallace was preoccupied with
irony, and argued, ‘it’s critical and destructive, a ground clearing […] [thus] singularly [accessed 10 September 2012] (sec. 1, final paragraph). Much of the scholarship on IJ suggests that it uses ‘techniques historically associated with metafiction’ and postmodernism in the service of ‘more traditional investment in human emotion and sentiment. Lee Konstantinou, ‘No Bull: David Foster Wallace and Postironic Belief’, in The Legacy of David Foster Wallace, ed. by Samuel Cohen and Lee Konstantinou (Iowa City: Iowa UP, 2012), p. 85; Paul Giles, ‘Sentimental Posthumanism: David Foster Wallace’, Twentieth Century Literature, 53.3 (2007) 327-‐344 (p. 330), q.v. See also Adam Kelly’s comprehensive literature overview. 6 David Lipsky, ‘The Lost Years and Last Days of David Foster Wallace’, in Conversations With David Foster Wallace, ed. by Stephen J. Burn (Jackson: Mississippi UP, 2012), pp. 161-‐181 (p. 172). 7 Frank Cioffi, ‘“An Anguish Become Thing”: Narrative as Performance in David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest’, Narrative, 8.2 (2000) 161-‐181 (p. 168). Pervading this dissertation is a tension between humanistic and post-‐structuralist rhetorics of criticism, which mimics IJ’s rhetorical strategy.
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unuseful when it comes to constructing anything to replace the hypocrisies it
debunks.’8 It is ironic that Wallace, who was sceptical of ‘resolv[ing] th[is] problem by
celebrating it,’ wrote a novel that might seem to be celebrating irony in order to
transcend it.9 IJ does not, however, celebrate irony but stages its failure to illustrate
the prison of self it creates, one that interdicts affective communication.10 Wallace
admired G.M. Hopkins’ ability to work within self-‐imposed formal limits, and Timothy
Jacobs’ description of Hopkins’ art could equally apply to Wallace’s: ‘both stress the
importance of flux within constraints, and discipline fused with creative variety.’11
Irony is a fact of IJ’s fictional landscape, an ingrained formal trope that cannot be
evaded. Instead, IJ adduces Alcoholics Anonymous meetings as venues where irony is
anathema, and where listening to and identifying with the speaker allows listeners to
experience a connection with another’s consciousness.
The novel’s 388 ‘notes and errata’ mirror a primary textual concern – addiction
– by making the reader chase text, but they ineluctably remind the reader that the
connection she experiences from the art is predicated upon mediation. Such self-‐
consciousness seems inimical to Wallace’s aesthetic ambitions, but the notes do not
depict the text as a recursive loop pointing only to itself and its status as text. The
notes occupy a liminal space between the main text and “real-‐world” referents, and
they share the main text’s often conversational diction. This demotic style is, arguably,
a quintessential feature of American literature, which is not historically associated
8 ‘E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction’, in A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again (London: Abacus, 2008) 21-‐82 (p. 67). 9 ibid., p. 76. 10 Lee Konstantinou argues that “Infinite Jest” allows readers to ‘think outside the system [of irony], to see its contours, to see how its elements are all tangled together, to imagine what resistance might look like.’ ‘No Bull’, p. 101, q.v. 11 Timothy Jacobs, ‘American Touchstone: The Idea of Order in Gerard Manley Hopkins and David Foster Wallace’, Comparative Literature Studies, 38.3 (2001) 215-‐231 (p. 221). For Wallace’s admiration of Hopkins, see Larry McCaffery, ‘An Expanded Interview With David Foster Wallace’, in Conversations With David Foster Wallace, pp. 21-‐52 (p. 52).
9
with high-‐Modernistic formal difficulty.12
Such formal difficulty is perhaps temporally displaced to c. 1950 onwards and
the advent of postmodernism, and many of the texts from this period are, as IJ is,
thematically ambitious and totalizing. This dissertation’s first chapter begins by
exploring why fictional excess is seductive, and then it looks briefly at how IJ’s
marketing campaign, which promised “infinite pleasure” and “infinite style”, appeals to
this. Attempts to make a virtue of IJ’s size hint at a paradox of seduction: perfect
seduction is also perfectly authoritarian, something the lethally entertaining “Infinite
Jest” demonstrates. IJ, however, keeps its reader actively engaged by reminding her
that the text she is consuming is constructed; its conversational rhetoric points to an
absent, illusive rhetor, and its endnotes are literally and figuratively dis-‐placing. Such
techniques alienate the reader, but this is necessary compensation for the demands
the narrative places upon her. IJ is a compelling text but a nourishing one because it
allows the reader to participate on her own terms, always allowing her to reclaim
emotional distance from it.
Chapter two is concerned with IJ’s ambivalence about irony; even a passage
explicitly warning of the dangers of jaded irony and weary cynicism is itself deeply
ironic. According to Mary K. Holland, irony in IJ perpetuates an inescapable narcissistic
loop, and thus the novel violates its own artistic precepts. Holland’s article adroitly
outlines how an ironic subjective mode becomes destructive and then narcissistic; it
stumbles, however, when it claims, ‘Wallace [does not] seem to consider the difficulty 12 Writers such as Melville, Twain, Fitzgerald, and even Faulkner are often considered representative of American literature in a way Pound, Eliot, and to a lesser extent Stein are not. The first group of writers’ works tend towards the demotic: Huckleberry Finn is narrated in dialect; Moby Dick has its famous intimate opening address and equally intimate knowledge of whaling; The Great Gatsby’s eponymous protagonist is a bootlegger; and though Faulkner’s meditative, temporally fluid prose is formally difficult, it is perfused with a Southern sensibility. Pound, on the other hand, was a fascist, Eliot an émigré, ditto Stein, whose style, like Pound’s and Eliot’s, was often formally estranging. The point is not to anatomize American literature – it would be pointlessly reductive to attempt to do so – but to identify a tendency within it. (Fitzgerald was also, of course, an émigré.)
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of positioning himself outside the society that he consciously critiques’.13 Contra this
claim, this chapter argues that IJ is a novel acutely aware of its inability to escape the
pervasive literary critical acceptance of irony, and as part of its strategy of deliberate
failure, it demonstrates how irony immures its characters. In contrast, Alcoholics
Anonymous is represented as a forum in which irony is shunned, but its depiction is
not uncritical; AA promulgates clichés that deform language and are sometimes
literally nonsensical. Ultimately, addiction – to irony, to drugs – imprisons the self, and
IJ attempts to show the cage’s bars so that the reader can take comfort from the
characters’ pain. These characters may not be able to escape, but IJ’s reader can, in
Iannis Goerlandt’s phrase, “Put the Book Down and Slowly Walk Away”.
Chapter three focuses on IJ’s underlying thematic sadness. It draws on Freudian
and Lacanian theoretical models of mourning and melancholia, and on The Brothers
Karamazov’s discussion of childhood memories. Hal Incandenza’s and Don Gately’s
fates remain unclear at their narratives’ conclusion, but whereas Hal is melancholic,
Gately is mournful. This distinction gives cause for optimism: though IJ’s final pages
recount Gately’s recollection of Eugene Fackelmann’s violent death, Gately is able to
use the memory to abide the trauma of a gunshot wound. His use of such a painful
memory, one augmented by memories of the domestic abuse he witnessed during
childhood, functions as an inversion of Aloysha Karamazov’s claim that a good memory
from the parental home is most useful for future life. Neither Hal nor Gately has many
“good” childhood memories, but while Gately is able to remember dispassionately,
Hal’s thoughts are beset by self-‐reviling and narcissism. The chapter concludes by
using Frank Cioffi’s reading of IJ’s narrative performance to examine how melancholia
and mourning may affect the reader. Cioffi argues that IJ is particularly disturbing
because it forces the reader to help constitute its narrative performance; this means
13 ‘“The Art’s Heart’s Purpose”: Braving the Narcissistic Loop of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest’, Critique, 47.3 (2006) 218-‐242 (pp. 220-‐221).
11
the reader is implicated in the novel’s trauma to a far greater extent than she
otherwise might have been. Trauma in IJ can, however, be redemptive, as it is in
Gately’s case; likewise, a reader may feel acute trauma but she can also feel consequent
redemption.
To conclude, this dissertation argues that IJ’s allusions to Hamlet reveal
Dostoevskian religious and mythic themes. As Kolya Krasotkin wishes ‘to suffer for all
men’, so too is Gately willing to suffer on behalf of Randy Lenz.14 Rather than a tragic
hero, whose fear of abusing narcotics causes his downfall, Gately may be a redeemer
whose ability to resist temptation provides a model for Hal to emulate. IJ mimics
religious rhetoric in order to confront the self and communicate utterly with others.
Paradoxical heartfelt cynicism, of the kind Madame Psychosis’ radio show embodies,
provides spiritual nourishment, though this is not without problems. Mario
Incandenza is a devotee of the Madame’s show and is probably IJ’s least cynical
character, but he is profoundly physically disabled; un-‐cynical persons, the novel
suggests, will appear to others literally deformed. Nevertheless, religion’s ability to
humanize abstractions is precious, and in IJ this manifests as a commitment to the
reader; by establishing its fictional boundaries, and deliberately failing to overcome
them, it ‘leaves it to the readers to put in their share of the work’, which allows them to
leave the art fuller than when they started.15
14 Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, ed. and trans. by Susan McReynolds Oddo, 2nd edn (New York: Norton Critical Editions, 2011) 15 Toon Staes, ‘“Only Artists Can Transfigure”: Kafka’s Artists and the Possibility of Redemption in the Novellas of David Foster Wallace’, Orbis Litterarum, 65.6 (2010) 459-‐480 (pp. 477-‐478).
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A Consummation Devoutly Equivocal: Seduction in Infinite Jest
A moment later, as the cushion attested her late virginity and tears ran from her eye-‐corners to her ears, she seized the King’s hair, wrapped about his waist her lovely legs, and to insure the success of her fiction, pretended a grand transport of rapture.16
Because of its length and breadth of scope, Infinite Jest shares obvious parallels
with other encyclopaedic fictions, such as Tristram Shandy, Moby Dick, and Ulysses, in
the Anglo-‐American novelistic tradition. These novels share a quixotic promise: their
totalizing ambitions seem to offer the seductive possibility that they can represent an
entire culture. American fiction’s wraithlike figurant is often the trope of The Great
American Novel, a cultural ideal that promises an artistic vision commensurate with a
nation’s capacity to wonder. As The Great Gatsby so poignantly illustrates, however,
such promises are inevitably unfulfilled; seductive promises remain painfully
unconsummated. Nevertheless, fictional excess entices; in IJ’s case, it is excessive
fiction and fiction about excess. It stages its totalizing ambitions in part through its
wide thematic scope: it is a novel variously about addiction, depression, cultural and
political recursion and annulation, sporting triumph and failure, and the anomic
consequences of pervasive irony. Characters in IJ seem to believe, mistakenly, that
abundant information and intellectual flair necessarily correlate with existential
fulfilment and coping, something one might call the noetic fallacy. Before ingesting an
exotic psychostimulant, ‘the allegedly incredibly potent DMZ,’ Hal Incandenza presses
the drug’s supplier for reliable pharmaceutical information, ‘did you actually hop in
the truck and actually go to a real medical library?’ His question’s implicit restraint is
undermined, however, by his prior eagerness regarding dosage: he asks whether ‘Two
or even three tablets, maybe?’ constitute one hit, and he ‘know[s] he sounds greedy but
[is] unable to help himself (IJ 211; 213-‐214).’
16 John Barth, Chimera (Greenwich, CT: Fawcett Crest Books, 1973), p. 27.
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Thematic seductiveness of excess is relatively easy to spot; subtler and more
problematic is how IJ formally enacts this theme. Hal is trapped in an ironic double
bind: he needs “reliable information” to make his decision, but lacks the self-‐control
necessary to evaluate that information. The reader shares his evaluative struggle,
because IJ is a formally difficult novel. It has multiple narrative voices, and multiple,
non-‐linear narrative strands (Wallace claimed it was structured to resemble a
Sierpinski Gasket17); its prose fuses argot with technical arcana; and its endnotes
provide a plethora of information. IJ is a seductive text, but its forms that seduce a
reader also alienate her. IJ’s diction can be obscure and recondite, but it uses
conversational qualifiers such as “like” as a conjunction and syndetic triplets such as
“and but so”; nevertheless, this conversational rhetoric points to an absent
conversational partner, and reminds the reader that the conversation is mediated.
Similarly, the narrative warns addiction’s excesses engender solipsism, yet the novel’s
endnotes seem to enact this warning and suggest that the text may be addicted to
itself; furthermore, its use of the lethally entertaining film “Infinite Jest” as a plot
device shows how perfect pleasure is perfectly authoritarian: if an audience has no
choice but to be seduced, it seems impossible to argue that that seduction is for its
benefit. This chapter will, however, ultimately claim that IJ’s formal techniques are the
mechanism by which the text avoids enforced seduction; they sufficiently estrange the
reader to allow her to reclaim critical distance and avoid passivity.
Just before IJ was published, Little, Brown devised a marketing strategy that
equated the novel’s length with aesthetic and cultural status; it was a strategy
designed to flatter whoever could cope with the novel’s length. Advance postcards
17 Michael Silverblatt, “Interview With David Foster Wallace’, Bookworm, 11 April 1996, in KCRW.com, <http://www.kcrw.com/etc/programs/bw/bw960411david_foster_wallace>, [accessed 21 September 2012]. An example of a Sierpinski Gasket can be found on this dissertation’s title page.
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heralded a work of ‘infinite pleasure’ and ‘infinite style’. Frank Bruni’s profile of
Wallace explains:
[Publishing] executives […] quickly realized that the sheer length of “Infinite Jest” could work in their favour […]. “We decided to play it as importance – that the size lent a certain weight to the book, that there was a certain undeniability about it,” says Amy Rhodes, head of marketing for the company. Her strategy revolved around a kind of dare: are you reader enough for this book?18
This is a clever Veblen-‐ite conceit. Reading the novel connotes conspicuous status: the
novel’s heft is liable to get a reader noticed, but the key word is the noun coinage
“undeniability.” It reifies the principle that successful art tackles “weighty themes”;
implicitly, IJ is so weighty it will likely overwhelm a critic’s ability to assess aesthetic
worth and will leave an undeniable impression. Early reviewers were caught in a
crude binary: they could concur with the novel’s marketing and succumb to Wallace’s
seductive prose, or they could view the promise of “infinite pleasure” as coercive and
peremptory, and then assert critical independence by dismissing the novel as self-‐
indulgent, not seductive.
IJ is such a self-‐conscious text that it seems proleptically to address such
criticisms. Early in the narrative, Ken Erdedy’s attempts to quit marijuana are
described: ‘This last time, he would smoke the whole 200 grams […] in four days, over
an ounce a day […] an incredible, insane amount per day, he’d make it a mission,
treating it like a penance and behaviour modification regimen all at once’ (IJ 22). The
irony of achieving redemption through excess echoes Rasputin’s doctrine that since sin
and repentance are co-‐dependent one should celebrate the former in order to achieve
the latter. But it also echoes a Modernist tendency to conflate formal innovation with
aesthetic merit; novels such as Ulysses are prose cathedrals, which the reader
approaches reverently and, perhaps, penitently. This metaphor explains why a reader
may feel paradoxically soothed by an imposing, encyclopaedic text; palpable excess 18 ‘The Grunge American Novel’, New York Times, 24 March 1996 <http://www.nytimes.com/books/97/03/16/reviews/wallace-‐v-‐profile.html> [accessed 15 June 15 2012] (sec. 2, para. 17 of 20)
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provides what Jed Rasula calls, ‘a guiding and inspiring mania, a divine prompting, an
enigmatic surplus which at once provokes, secures, and makes manic the dream of
total knowledge.’19 It is hardly an accident that John’s Gospel opens by linking divinity
with logos.20 One may, however, be suspicious of literature that appears to valorise the
“enigmatic surplus”, because it risks literary solipsism; rather than communicating
something specific, a novel may care more about its own rhetorical affect and forget
what that affect is in the service of.
IJ represents this problem through Charles Tavis and Orin Incandenza. They are
conceptually alike in that they both attempt to seduce others, but each represents a
different problem with seduction. Tavis’ pathological self-‐consciousness leads him to
‘lurk around creepily on the fringe’ of groups, and ‘say, loudly, in some lull in the
group’s conversation, something like “I’m afraid I’m far too self-‐conscious to really join
in here, so I’m just going to lurk creepily at the fringe and listen, if that’s alright, just so
you know’ (IJ 517). This strategy is, unsurprisingly, described as ‘excruciating’. It
represents a failed seduction because it exposes seduction’s logical underpinnings.
Seduction functions only if the seducer is aware of how he presents himself, but he
must maintain the illusion that his focus is primarily on another. This is a necessary
fiction, and if the subject is conscious of it, she endorses it only if it assuages her own
self-‐consciousness at being seduced. Tavis violates this precept: rather than efface the
self-‐consciousness inherent to social interaction – a shared anxiety about how one
perceives and is perceived by another – he calls attention to it.
Orin, conversely, is a seducer par excellence, someone who, in his first semester
at college, ‘had already drawn idle little sideways 8’s on the postcoital flanks of a dozen
B.U. coeds (IJ 289).’ His patented seduction strategy, ‘unwittingly inspired’ by Tavis,
involves ‘an opening like “Tell me what sort of man you prefer, and then I’ll affect the 19 ‘Textual Indigence in the Archive’, Postmodern Culture, 9.3 (May 1999) (para. 7 of 39). 20 Consider theology’s etymology.
16
demeanor of that man (IJ 290; 1048).”’ These sideways 8’s – infinity, and conjoined
“O”s – imply the recursive seductive loop trapping him: ‘one Subject is never enough
[…] hand after hand must descend to pull him back from the endless fall (IJ 566).’ His
pathological seduction, with its ‘pose of poselessness’, is a consequence of his
subjective impoverishment (IJ 1048). His compulsive bedding of “Subjects” – though as
Hal points out, ‘the exact obverse’ applies – allows him to feel, for a fleeting instant,
desired, ‘that he has her and is what she sees and all she sees’, is more than the vacuum
implied by his initial (IJ 1008; 566). Orin’s narcissism can be read as a critique of past
metafiction, which claimed to offer increased openness but instead enacted ‘another
kind of falsehood, perhaps an even worse falsehood than the one it was intended to
blast away.’21 IJ suggests that the “worse falsehood” an author can perpetuate is to
write fiction that pretends to be for a reader’s benefit but actually shuns artistic
communication and is conscious only of its own textual status.
Orin’s father’s films are ostensibly afflicted by this disingenuous aesthetic; Hal
claims, ‘Himself had no interest in suckering the audience with illusory realism’ (IJ
944). James Incandenza’s films, however, are not contemptuous of their audiences as
Orin is contemptuous of his “subjects”. Himself’s films, ironically, invite meta-‐critical
responses in order to deny them: advertisements for his film “The Joke” ‘were all
required to say something like […] You Are Strongly Advised NOT To Shell Out Money To
See This Film, which art-‐film habitués of course thought was a cleverly ironic anti-‐ad
joke’ (IJ 397). Incandenza’s films, for all their conceptual failings, do take a pose,
however inimical to their audiences’ expectations; but “The Joke”, which Incandenza
loved because it was ‘publicly static and simple-‐minded and dumb’, shows the
impossibility of reversing artistic involution by using its techniques unreflexively (IJ
398). Artistic fiat cannot militate against an audience’s self-‐consciousness, and
21 Marshall Boswell, Understanding David Foster Wallace (Columbia: South Carolina UP, 2009), p. 154
17
Incandenza’s final film manages to obviate audience participation entirely. “Infinite
Jest” is perfectly seductive but perfectly authoritarian; it dictates rather than
communicates.
Of these dysfunctional models of seduction, Tavis’ not the Incandenzas’ offers
the closest parallel to how the text seduces its reader. Tavis’ seductive failings co-‐exist
with a preternatural ability to placate irate parents, at which he is ‘a master charmer
past all social gauge, a Houdini with the manacles of facts, the interfaces like fluidless
seductions’ (IJ 1046). This paradox of awkward assurance is mirrored by the text’s
enacted tentativeness, which is apparent in its deliberate solecisms. Apart from
dialogue, the narrative’s syntax is often conversational: sentences sometimes
commence with two or even three conjunctions – “and but so” – a device that mimics a
garrulous speaker’s breathless delivery. This conjunctive stutter is a feature of what
Dale Peck described as ‘faux sloppiness’, which ‘enables [Wallace] to discuss with
varying degrees of fluency all sorts of subjects […] without resorting to academese.’22 A
medical attaché’s job’s description initially features a semantic field of medical
terminology (‘ulcerated sinal necrosis’), but soon there is a shift from the eso-‐ to the
exoteric: ‘and but so when the attaché does get home, at like 1840h’ (IJ 33; 35). This
“faux sloppiness” extends further, to the extent that the text seems out of the
narrator’s control.23 Some endnotes, though literally distant from the main text,
attempt to distance themselves still farther from the narrative viewpoint by claiming
not to know what the main text’s narrator means or by proleptically acknowledging
morally objectionable content.24 The endnotes are a self-‐conscious reminder of the
22 ‘Well, duh’, London Review of Books, 18 July 1996, p. 15. Peck’s assessment of IJ’s style is quite astute; his assessment of everything else, less so. 23 Of course, many reviewers read this as evidence that Wallace was not in control of his material. 24 Note 64, for example, begins ‘not 100% clear on this’, and note 91 glosses Gately’s sometimes limited vocabulary, ‘Pillow biter’s a North Shore term, one Gately grew up with, and it and the f-‐term are the only terms for male homosexuals he knows, still.’ p. 996 and p. 1003, q.v.
18
text’s construction, but they also signify a self-‐compulsiveness, a wish to extend the
text further and reach out and touch the green light at the dock’s end.
Rhetorically, these formal devices create a number of effects. Syntactic or
grammatical informality creates the illusion that IJ’s narrator is speaking directly to
the reader with minimal mediation. According to a Derridean conception of language,
this effect is particularly powerful because speech is associated with metaphysical
presence – a corporeal entity standing before us who can clarify what he or she means
– whereas writing is associated with absence: the reader is usually physically absent
when an author writes, and the writer is absent when her work is read. Derrida claims
that Western philosophy tends to mistrust writing because it lacks speech’s
immediacy. There is, then, an inherent irony to IJ’s conversational style, in fact, a
double irony. By using written language to represent inflections common to speech,
the text frequently presents itself not as narrated but orated. And like a skilled orator,
the text fosters the illusion that its language is spontaneous. This illusion is hardly
new, as Aristotle shows, ‘those who practise this artifice must conceal it and avoid the
appearance of speaking artificially instead of naturally; for that which is natural
persuades, but the artificial does not. For men become suspicious of one whom they
think to be laying a trap for them’.25 Aristotle’s warning hints at the double irony the
text perpetuates: not only is its spontaneity constructed, but its representation of a
narrative figure, one which uses informal, conversational lexis but whose identity is
frequently withheld, does not actually speak. It is not an orator, nor even a narrator,
but a figurant; to quote de Man, it is ‘not the thing itself but the representation, the
picture of the thing and, as such, it is silent, mute as pictures are mute. Language, as
25 ‘Rhetoric’, Aristotle in 23 Volumes, ed. and trans. by J.H. Freese, (Cambridge & London: Harvard UP; William Heinemann Ltd., 1926), XXII, 3.II.4.
19
trope, is always privative.’26 IJ’s style, which seems to seductively evoke a narrative
presence, in fact inheres its opposite.
This alienation recalls Brecht’s “estrangement effect”, whereby an audience
does not lose itself in a theatrical performance but remains critically distant. When IJ
mimics the cadence of compulsive speech the reader is compelled to consider how the
conversational effect is produced. IJ represents spoken language as inherently
provisional and perpetually on the verge of modification. This is evident in the novel’s
last, paratactic sentence: ‘And when he came back to, he was flat on his back on the
beach in the freezing sand, and it was raining out of a low sky, and the tide was way
out (IJ 981).’ The sentence ends, but its meaning is unresolved: it is unclear what is the
grammatical complement of the opening “And when”; it appears only as a fragment, an
iteration that cannot end so must be interrupted by a full stop. Such refusal to
conclude conclusively is maddening and enticing; it implies that textual meaning ebbs
and flows like the tide. This may deny a reader the seductive pleasure of resolution,
but resolution may itself always be illusory, its seduction a sham; in Derrida’s
aphoristic phrase, ‘if a speech could be purely present, unveiled, naked, offered up in
person in its truth, without the detours of a signifier foreign to it, if at the limit an
undeferred logos were possible, it would not seduce anyone.’27 The concept of Logos
originates in John’s Gospel, but divine certainty prompts fearful obedience; it does not
seduce.
Nevertheless, the utterly compulsive “Infinite Jest” reminds readers of the
dangers of a perfectly seductive work of art, and the critical estrangement IJ’s text
creates stops its reader from becoming a passive spectator, one too engrossed by the
display to see how it is constituted. Self-‐consciousness and seduction thus need not be
26 ‘Autobiography As De-‐Facement’, in The Rhetoric of Romanticism (Columbia UP, 1986) pp. 67-‐82 (p. 80). 27 ‘Plato’s Pharmacy’, in Dissemination, trans. by Barbara Johnson (London: Continuum, 2004), pp. 62-‐142 (p. 76).
20
mutually exclusive: they can be to the seduced subject’s benefit. But however
successful the text’s critical estrangement is, there is always the risk that, like the
parents whom Tavis charms, the reader finds herself not ‘daring to even possibly think,
even for a moment’, perhaps forgetting that textual rapture is a successful fiction (IJ
1046).
This risk is perhaps addressed by the functions IJ’s endnotes fulfil (tellingly, the
account of Tavis’ charm occurs in an endnote). Much as IJ’s evocation of a narrative
presence subverts it, its endnotes imply totality while simultaneously imposing textual
limits. They literally and metaphorically dis-‐place a reader, sending her chasing after
knowledge at the expense of her place in the text. The endnotes constitute a liminal
space, a buffer between the novel’s world and the reader’s. Some of the information
they contain is factual, most is fictional; the effect, however, is to show the reader a
way out of the text. This is important because many postmodern novels, in line with
post-‐structuralist textual theories, operate much like Barth’s funhouse: their language
points only to itself, and their structure consequently involutes. This meta-‐fictional
tendency can become solipsistic, an endless cycle of text commenting on its status as
text. IJ’s endnotes, however, can point to something extra-‐textual, some “real-‐world”
referent such as a fragment of medical trivia, or an explanation of an acronym. N.
Katherine Hayles correctly identifies IJ as a text that comprises ‘cycles within cycles
within cycles’, and it attempts to puncture recursive textuality by, yes, providing the
reader with more text.28 Though he is discussing Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, J.P. Telotte’s
words apply to IJ: ‘to examine [these textual] forces it must first lay them open, array
them for all to see, and so risk invoking the same seductive power it cautions
against.’29
28 ‘The Illusion of Autonomy and the Fact of Recursivity: Virtual Ecologies, Entertainment, and Infinite Jest’, New Literary History, 30.3 (1999), 675-‐697 (p. 684) 29 ‘The Seductive Text of Metropolis’, South Review, 55.4 (November 1990) 49-‐60 (p. 59). Comparing IJ with Metropolis is not as strange as it might seem: not only does IJ
21
This is in keeping with the novel’s persistent staging of its own failure, but it
also recuperates Schtitt’s tennis philosophy, also applicable to the whole text:
You compete with your own limits to transcend the self in imagination and execution. Disappear inside the game: break through limits: transcend: improve: win. […] You seek to vanquish and transcend the limited self whose limits make the game possible in the first place (IJ 84).
Though seemingly abstract, IJ’s endnotes and its representation of spoken language
work to establish and overcome textual limits. Despite this, is IJ still another funhouse
like Barth’s, one that loves its reader enough to be completely open about its artifice?
Notwithstanding that complete openness is epistemically dubious, complete openness
of the kind Charles Tavis embodies is horrible: ‘genuine pathological openness is about
as seductive as Tourette’s syndrome (IJ 1048).’ But through its depiction of AA
meetings, the novel offers several instances of openness that are horrifying yet
nourishing.30 AA members have heard virtually every permutation of human misery:
‘Gately says he defies the new Ennet House residents to try and shock the smiles off
these Boston AA’s faces (IJ 352).’ Sure enough, one of the speakers talks with pride
about his first ‘solid dump’ for years. This sort of freedom has a seductive quality very
different from a funhouse; one consciously participates in both instances, but an AA
member is always part of a community and engages with it on her own terms: ‘You’re
In if you say you’re In. Nobody can get kicked out, not for any reason (IJ 352).’ Such
scenes seduce and repel the reader, but the reader, like a recovering addict,
participates only for as long as she feels an emotional engagement. She is seduced by
the fiction but not trapped by it.
mention a ‘chilling framed print of Lang directing Metropolis’, but Wallace originally wanted to use that print as the novel’s front cover (IJ 951). David Lipsky, Although of Course, p. 95, q.v. The “chilling print” being referred to is probably the one to be found here: http://infinitejest.wallacewiki.com/david-‐foster-‐wallace/images/f/f4/Fritz_lang_directing_metropolis.jpg 30 The account of childhood sexual abuse on pp. 370-‐374, which abuse involves a father placing a rubber Raquel Welch mask on his developmentally disabled daughter before raping her – blurting out ‘Raquel!’ as he reaches climax – is particularly disturbing.
22
The Prison of Self: Infinite Jest and Irony He’d come out stronger, or so he believed, having lived through pain and confinement, the
machine of self.31
‘Make no mistake: irony tyrannizes us’, wrote David Foster Wallace.32 One of
Infinite Jest’s paradoxes, however, is that it is a deeply ironic text that attempts to
eschew irony’s implied solipsism: self-‐consciousness commenting only on itself. Paul
de Man goes so far as to say that irony ‘returns us to the self’s predicament as unhappy
consciousness’33; it prompts self-‐consciousness about linguistic production, and
consequently self-‐consciousness about how one’s self is articulated. Nevertheless,
irony and self-‐consciousness are necessarily linked: without self-‐consciousness, the
contradictory parallel expectations on which irony relies cannot be articulated. In IJ,
for example, a flamboyant transvestite called Poor Tony Krause snatches a designer
handbag, unaware that an artificial heart is inside. “Reporter” “Helen” Steeply34
provides the details:
The active alert woman gave chase to the purse snatching “woman” […] plaintively shouting […] “Stop her! She stole my heart! […] In response to her plaintive cries […] misunderstanding shoppers and passers by merely shook their heads at one another, smiling knowingly at what they ignorantly presumed to be yet another alternative lifestyle’s relationship gone sour (IJ 143).
Though a farcical and macabre example of irony as a subjective mode, Steeply’s report
illustrates irony’s parallel contradictory expectations: Boston pedestrians interpreted
the woman’s cry metaphorically when it was meant literally. In order to understand
31 Don DeLillo, Running Dog (London: Victor Gollancz Ltd., 1978), p. 231. 32 David Foster Wallace, ‘E Unibus Pluram’, in A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again (London: Abacus, 2001) pp. 21-‐82 (p. 67). 33 Jean-‐Pierre Mileur, ‘Allegory and Irony: “The Rhetoric of Temporality” Re-‐Examined’, Comparative Literature, 38.4 (1986) 329-‐336 (p. 334). Because irony in IJ takes several forms, its discussion in this chapter implies a kind of Kantian antinomy, whereby irony is both a subjective condition and a textual feature. 34 Scare quotes surround “Helen” and “reporter” because the putative reporter is actually an undercover government agent called Hugh Steeply who is working in drag.
23
the confusion between the denotative and connotative meanings of “Stop her! She
stole my heart” the article’s reader must countenance language’s epistemic
uncertainty, which allows a sentence to have multiple discrete valences.
Wallace’s ambivalence about irony stems from instances where its uncertainty
is deliberately irresolvable. Irony’s etymological root comes via Latin from the Greek
eirōneia, which means “simulated ignorance”, and simulation implies concealment of
one’s true intentions or motivations. An ironic text thus carries the trace of dishonesty
regardless of its motives. Wallace’s aforementioned essay on television’s and
literature’s co-‐option of irony offers peremptory caution: ‘All U.S. irony is built on an
implicit “I don’t really mean what I’m saying.”’35 In fact all irony is built on this
implication, but of interest is the claim that this is tyrannical, particularly if one
questions whether Wallace’s fiction avoids the same ironic pitfalls of which he was so
keenly aware. Mary K. Holland argues that it does not and that Wallace does not fulfill
his stated artistic agenda:
[He] seems [unable] to consider the difficulty of positioning himself outside the society that he consciously critiques or the impossibility of successfully critiquing a society whose sinister and powerful underpinnings remain unacknowledged: not just destructive irony but the pathological narcissism that makes us feel, when we try to reach out to others through earnest communication, like fish out of water.36
Holland’s claim that IJ’s irony perpetuates an inescapable “narcissistic loop” forms the
basis of this chapter’s argument, because her article is instructive even when it
misreads the novel. IJ often cannot escape “destructive irony” and “pathological
narcissism” except by dramatizing their negative effects. By doing so, it stages irony’s
failure but offers its reader redemption by limning the bars of irony’s cage. This
chapter will look closely at a passage that is emblematic both of the text’s attitudes to
irony and of the narcissism Holland identifies; after this critical framing, it will offer a
close reading of a passage that discusses Alcoholics Anonymous meetings’ etiquette 35 ‘E Unibus Pluram’, p. 67. 36 ‘“The Art's Heart's Purpose”: Braving the Narcissistic Loop of David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest’, Critique, 47.3 (Spring 2006), 218-‐242 (p. 221).
24
and will argue that its emphasis on communication and identification offers an escape
from the narcissistic loop Holland claims the novel’s presentation of irony perpetuates.
Since there are varying, sometimes idiosyncratic, critical definitions of irony, a
brief excursus explaining how irony functions formally with reference to post-‐
structuralism’s obsession with self-‐reference may be helpful.37 An axiom of post-‐
structuralism is that unmediated communication is illusory. Given that irony draws
attention to language’s double meanings, and thus its own mediating status, de Man
has argued that irony is an example of language at its most self-‐conscious and thus at
its most honest. In an essay exploring de Man’s ideas about rhetoric and irony, Jacques
Derrida highlights this form of self-‐reference through a reading of Francis Ponge’s
poem ‘Fable’, which begins, ‘By the word by commences then this text | Of which the first
line states the truth’. According to Derrida, the text, ‘presents itself ironically as
allegory.’38 The poem’s opening is literally true, but its truth is self-‐determined: in de
Man’s terms, it is ‘an entity that confronts itself’, which is the ‘paradigmatic linguistic
model’.39 It is paradigmatic because language is never self-‐effacing: when it denotes, it
always and also connotes itself. Irony therefore functions by enacting this inherent
denotative/connotative linguistic binary and reveling in the slippage between the two
valences. In Ponge’s text, the initial self-‐referential denotative truth is destabilized by
the contradictory explication that follows; the second line literally re-‐inscribes the
37 This obsession weighs heavily on IJ; Wallace told Larry McCaffery, ‘language’s self-‐consciousness had always been there, but neither writers nor critics nor readers wanted to be reminded of it. But we ended up seeing […] maybe why everybody wanted to keep linguistic self-‐consciousness out of the show. It gets empty and solipsistic real fast. It spirals in on itself.’ ‘An Extended Interview With David Foster Wallace’, in Conversations With David Foster Wallace, ed. by Stephen J. Burn (Jackson: Mississippi UP, 2012), pp. 21-‐52 (p. 40), q.v. 38 ‘Psyche: Inventions of the Speech Act’, in A Derrida Reader: Between the Blinds, ed. by Peggy Kamuf (New York: Columbia UP, 1991), pp. 200-‐220 (p. 202). 39 Allegories of Reading: Figural Language in Rousseau, Nietzsche, Rilke, and Proust (New Haven: Yale UP, 1979) p. 153. de Man’s wider point is that all literary language is allegorical, i.e., it is perfused with latent meaning.
25
poem’s topos but figuratively erases it, because it is no longer only the first line that
states the truth.
This complex ironic mode is commonplace in IJ even in those parts of the novel
that explicitly struggle against it:
The U.S. arts are our guide to inclusion. A how-‐to. We are shown how to fashion masks of ennui and jaded irony at a young age where the face is fictile enough to assume the shape of whatever it wears. And then it’s stuck there, the weary cynicism that saves us from gooey sentiment and unsophisticated naïveté. […] Hal, who’s empty but not dumb, theorizes privately that what passes for hip cynical transcendence of sentiment is really some kind of fear of being really human, since to be really human (at least as he conceptualizes it) is probably to be unavoidably sentimental and naïve and goo-‐prone, and generally pathetic, is to be in some basic interior way forever infantile, some sort of not-‐quite-‐right-‐looking infant dragging itself anaclitically around the map, with big wet eyes and froggy-‐soft skin, huge skull, gooey drool. One of the really American things about Hal, probably, is the way he despises what it is he’s really lonely for: this hideous internal self, incontinent of sentiment and need, that pules and writhes just under the hip empty mask, anhedonia (IJ 694-‐695).
This quoted passage is key to the novel and to Holland’s argument because it is so
complexly ironic. Despite its protestations to the contrary, the passage, its tone
noticeably editorial, does ostensibly undermine “earnest communication.” While
Holland’s reading of IJ’s irony has its problems, she is right to question whether the
novel fulfils Wallace’s artistic precepts.
The passage’s narrative voice shares many similarities with Hal’s,
tergiversating between hortatory grandstanding and introspection. This creates
tension: no sooner has the narrator repeated ‘really human’ than it is qualified by an
aside, a reminder that it is Hal, and not the unnamed narrator, who is conceptualizing
this fear of sentimentality. An author-‐narrator can dissociate herself from statements
by placing them in the mouth of a character, and Wallace seems initially to eschew that
option only subsequently to demur. The parallelism of the sentence’s construction –
‘some kind of fear of being really human, since to be really human’ – seems classically
rhetorical, epideictic. But epideixis, at least in its Aristotelian sense, requires the rhetor
to gauge audience expectation accurately, and this unavoidably inheres a self-‐
26
conscious style of presentation. A rhetorical mode intended to persuade undermines
itself as soon as one of its fundamental principles – the anticipation of its audience’s
reaction – is revealed; and this paradox is itself, of course, ironic. The passage’s
rhetorical ambivalence is perhaps a function of its anxieties about its prospective
audience: an ‘ideal’ reader or listener may be one who cannot discern its complex
ironies; one who can would, like Hal, be trapped within the environment it describes.
Thus, again, the narrative stages its own failure.
The passage also proleptically anticipates its audience’s reaction by presenting
its argument as a response to a fictional film, ‘The American Century as Seen Through
a Brick’, and it is ironic that a passage expressing humanist anxieties uses a framing
device to distance itself from the sentiments it expresses. “American Century” follows
the ‘resultant career’ of one brick stripped from ‘U.S. Boston’s historical Back Bay
streets’, which then appears in a ‘found-‐art temporary installation’, and is ultimately
used in Quebecois-‐liberation riots. These scenes’ depiction is ‘intercut with ambiguous
shots of a human thumb’s alterations in the interference pattern of a plucked string (IJ
989).’ It is an incongruous piece of narrative framing, but it permits the text to present
its convolved argument against the ‘queerly persistent U.S. myth’ of a ‘mutually
exclusive’ cynicism/naïveté binary from behind yet another layer of mediation (IJ
694). It allows the text to make provocative claims about the U.S. arts and then back
away from them. IJ’s diagnosis of cultural enervation is hardly neoteric – Pynchon’s
metaphorical appropriation of heat death obviously precedes it – and its mention of
‘fictile’ faces implies it is part of the problem it decries. How then to determine
whether its failure to transcend irony’s pitfalls is a successful, deliberately staged
failure or is, as Holland argues, simply a failure?
The text’s critique of “American Century” provides a clue. Hal’s critical appraisal
of his father’s film, whose ‘unsubtle thesis’ (it is after all about a brick) is ‘that naïveté
is the last true terrible sin in the theology of millennial America (IJ 694)’, is full of
27
patricidal possibility. Wallace himself invoked Harold Bloom’s thesis of artistic
influence and patricide to illustrate how he felt his generation had neglected its artistic
responsibilities: ‘patricide produces orphans […] [and] we start gradually to realize
that parents in fact aren’t ever coming back – which means we’re going to have to be
the parents.’40 A glance at James Incandenza’s filmography shows the auteur’s
tendency to conflate art and life.41 By watching and criticising his father’s film, Hal
commits his own artistic patricide, but the process is more akin to kenosis than
clinamen: empty stasis rather than sudden swerve. It may, ironically, be what
perpetuates Hal’s feeling ‘empty but not dumb’; Hal can see his father’s artistic flaws
but cannot provide his own corrective (IJ 694). Kenosis implies a God who can pervade
and redeem the newly emptied subject, but the text seems agnostic; no textual
Authority is assumed, and the narrative refuses to endorse a similarly “unsubtle
thesis” that expiates the purported sins of naïveté and sentiment.
The text’s psychoanalytic register is strengthened by its use of a damaged
infant, a literal deformation of self, as a metaphor for naïveté and absence of irony.42
Again, the image is ironic because it suggests an oxymoronic sophisticated innocence:
the infantile semantic field – ‘incontinent’, ‘drool’, ‘pules’ – is part of a sophisticated
literary aesthetic that incorporates esoteric terminology (‘anaclitic’). The metaphor is
established and immediately subverted; infancy becomes infantile. The ‘froggy-‐soft’
skinned, macrocephalic infant is reminiscent of Rémy Marathe’s skull-‐less wife and of
40 McCaffery, p. 52. 41 See, for example, ‘(At Least) Three Cheers for Cause and Effect, whose protagonist is ‘The headmaster of a newly constructed high-‐altitude sports academy’ (IJ 991). 42 This comparison is not original. In an essay published two years after IJ, Wallace admits, ‘the best metaphor I know of for being a fiction writer is in Don DeLillo's “Mao II,” where he describes a book-‐in-‐progress as a kind of hideously damaged infant that follow s the writer around’. In this essay he uses similarly disquieting imagery, e.g., describing the infant as ‘hideously defective, hydrocephalic and noseless and flipper-‐armed and incontinent and retarded and dribbling cerebo-‐spinal fluid out of its mouth as it mewls and blurbles and cries out to the writer’. “The Nature of the Fun”, Fiction Writer, (Sep 1998), reprinted in Why I Write: Thoughts on the Craft of Fiction, ed. by Will Blythe (New York: Back Bay, 1999), pp. 140-‐145 (p. 140), q.v.
28
other deformed denizens of “The Great Concavity”. The Concavity represents territory
experialistically forced upon what was formerly Canada, so this metaphorical infant
becomes even more radically other: literally deformed, geographically removed and
bounded.43 Furthermore, so self-‐conscious an author-‐narrator is surely aware of
Derrida’s supplement: delimiting an area of self and attempting to label it as other
requires the narrator to consider the very thing he or she wishes to be kept distant.
For Hal, the damaged infant metaphor also connotes fratricide, because the damaged
infant resembles Mario Incandenza, Hal’s physically disabled older brother. Mario
shares a room with Hal and is physically and unignorably present in his life. Hal is fond
and protective of Boo – Mario’s endearingly pathetic cognomen and an ironic reference
to To Kill A Mockingbird’s reclusive Boo Radley – but he avoids addressing his
openhearted observation, ‘I’m sorry if you’re sad, Hal. You seem sad (IJ 782).’ Hal can
ignore Mario’s ingenuousness, but he can neither literally nor figuratively evade it. His
or the narrator’s pathologizing of cynicism is risky, since the use of psychoanalytic
terms may perpetuate and legitimize the sickness it identifies. (IJ is perhaps satirizing
the enthusiasm with which Americans accepted Freudian theory.) Whether Hal is
blamed for his existential emptiness, his aetiological ‘private theorizing’ seems
unlikely to help him feel less alone. This persistent recourse to self in part justifies
Holland’s labelling of IJ’s irony as narcissistic; IJ, however, uses psychoanalytic
signifiers to stage the failure of contemporary post-‐patricidal art.
IJ attempts to arrest irony’s narcissistic spiral through its representation of AA,
where the focus is on identifying with others. In marked contrast to the lonely
damaged infant, AA meetings are predicated on shared torment, an empathic attempt
to Identify.44 The acute self-‐consciousness of a speaker is shared and amplified by his
or her audience, which is kind enough to be cruel: ‘Close to two hundred people all 43 Experialism is Imperialism’s obverse, and the concavity is an example of reverse annexation. 44 AA tends to capitalize abstract nouns.
29
punishing someone by getting embarrassed for him, killing him by empathetically
dying right there with him (IJ 368).’ The speaker cannot narcissistically ironize,
because his or her audience is adept at recognizing self-‐preserving dissimulation. In
AA, ‘Speakers who are accustomed to figuring out what an audience wants to hear and
then supplying it find out quickly that this particular audience does not want to be
supplied with what someone else thinks it wants (IJ 367-‐368).’ Unsurprisingly, this
paradoxical stance – of communicating to an audience without any sense of that
audience’s expectations – ‘literally makes no sense (IJ 368).’ Though AA is an ‘Irony-‐
free zone’, it’s a place which allows situational irony to flourish; as Don Gately notes,
‘it’s funny what they’ll find funny’ (IJ 369; 367). Thus a speaker’s account of how his
alcoholism cost him his job in a store’s complaints department leaves his audience
convulsed with laughter when he reveals he was fired only when somebody
discovered whom to complain to about the complaints department.
This ‘Identification and pleasure’ an AA audience experiences differs from the
cool, sophisticated ennui of James Incandenza’s film’s audiences (IJ 368). The AA
audience does not take pleasure from detached spectation or from ironizing distance;
irony in this case operates as a celebration of literality. Later in the novel, Joelle van
Dyne (a.k.a Madame Psychosis) sits by Gately’s hospital bed and tells him, ‘I found
myself telling [other AA novitiates] that I’d stopped seeing “One Day at a Time” and
“Keep It in the Day” as trite clichés. Patronizing (IJ 858).’ She expects clichés to be
utterly evacuated of meaning, so this realization counts as ironic; but this irony has a
different valence: unlike Hal’s musings, it moves from connotative to denotative
meaning and back. It is no accident that AA has religious underpinnings, for this
connotative/denotative shift is soteriological. When Jesus tells his disciples his body is
broken for them, they are invited to consider the literality behind the metaphor, to
take comfort from it; when an old guy ‘with geologic amounts of sober time in AA’
invites Gately ‘to just simply sit down at meetings […] and just listen, for the first time
30
perhaps in your life really listen’, his emphasis of listen is apt: to listen, to Identify with
what is literal allows communion with others (IJ 353).
It would be a mistake to endorse uncritically the novel’s depiction of AA, even
though it seems to offer the earnestness Hal lacks and Wallace extra-‐textually
valorised. Holland’s article is perceptive about the narcissistic loops IJ’s characters are
caught in, though her conflation of narcissism and irony perhaps applies only to irony
as a subjective condition. Certainly, where drug addicts are concerned, ‘it is ironic that
a collection of people defined by their solipsism should endeavor to cure themselves
chiefly through an appeal to empathy.’45 But Holland mistakenly argues that AA itself
perpetuates a sort of ‘secondary’ narcissism, by which, ‘adult narcissists love others for
reflecting what they perceive as best about themselves in an attempt to approximate
that closed-‐loop bliss of infantile self-‐fulfillment that ego formation forces them to
abandon.’46 AA in fact appropriates this self-‐aggrandizing process and subverts it: AA
members love others for reflecting what is worst about themselves, and while the
perpetual anxiety about relapsing – known as going Out There – keeps them as
immured as their substances once did, they gain the freedom of sober human
connection. The following exchange between Marathe and Steeply shows this paradox:
‘What if sometimes there is no choice about what to love? What if the temple comes to Mohammed?’ […]
‘Then in such a case your temple is self and sentiment. Then in such an instance you are a fanatic of desire, a slave to your individual subjective narrow self’s sentiments; a citizen of nothing. […] You are by yourself and alone, kneeling to yourself (IJ 108).’
According to Marathe, persons can choose ‘what [they] invest with faith,’ but it is naïve
to presume they can abstain from choosing (IJ 107). The trick is to be devout, not
anchoritic. The way to avoid “kneeling to yourself” is called, in AA argot, ‘Giving it
Away’, and the term is ironic in the manner of other AA clichés: its apparent literality
conceals profundity (IJ 344). It connotes linguistic betrayal, because whoever shares 45 Holland, p. 233. 46 Holland, p. 224.
31
must be honest or endure the refracted pain of an audience that is embarrassed on
their behalf.
AA’s deformation of language destroys irony’s insidious malevolence because it
shows how something can be literally meaningless yet powerfully suggestive. The
narration of Hal’s thoughts on his father’s film depicts irony as extreme linguistic self-‐
consciousness, a nauseous annulation of denotative and connotative meaning. This,
however, cannot apply to the AA slogan “Here But For the Grace of God”: as Joelle van
Dyne notes, ‘“But For the Grace of God” is a subjunctive, a counterfactual […] and can
make sense only when introducing a conditional clause’ (IJ 366). It is language that
cannot denote, only connote; and connotation – as its prefix corroborates – requires
sharing with others. Irony’s solipsism is obviated, but this in itself is no panacea.
Forgoing irony certainly does not guarantee happiness for the novel’s characters:
thanks to AA’s iteration of “One Day at a Time”, Gately is able to endure his
hospitalization, but endurance is far from fulfillment; he also fantasizes about AA’s
cardinal sin: self-‐aggrandizement, ‘at an AA convention, off-‐handedly saying something
that got an enormous laugh (IJ 858).’
Ultimately, IJ’s art is for its reader not its characters. Though the characters are
ineluctably bound by a narrative’s pages, readers are not, and can go away full, feeling
the ‘plain old untrendy human troubles and emotions’ Wallace wanted to convey.47
Iannis Goerlandt alludes to this, though while his conclusion is valid his reasoning
seems unnecessarily abstruse: ‘readers are given the opportunity to leave the
addictive reading cycle by entering their meta-‐commentary on the level of the novel's
superstructure, after which they experience their nonironic “infinite jest” by slowly
walking away after putting the book down.’48 This seems a rather complicated
acknowledgement that however strongly a reader may identify with a novel’s 47 ‘E Unibus Pluram’, p. 81. 48 ‘“Put the Book Down and Slowly Walk Away”: Irony and David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest,’ Critique, 47.3 (Spring 2006), 309-‐328 (p. 326).
32
characters, her fate is never inextricably linked with theirs. A character cannot escape
her fictional construct; a reader can. And Goerlandt’s point about superstructure
begetting meta-‐commentary suggests IJ’s text foregrounds its own mediation in order
to help the reader transcend it, to take something from it rather than be trapped in the
recursive patterns N. Katherine Hayles has identified.49 In the words of IJ’s sweat-‐
imbibing guru Lyle, ‘escape from a cage must surely require, foremost, awareness of
the fact of the cage (IJ 389).’ To live through pain and confinement, the machine of self,
one must first be able to see its bars.
49 ‘The Illusion of Autonomy and the Fact of Recursivity: Virtual Ecologies, Entertainment, and Infinite Jest’, New Literary History, 30.3 (1999), 675-‐697 (p. 684).
33
Mourning Becomes Infinite
Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps. The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man.50
Much as Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 does, Infinite Jest’s exuberant
farce and linguistic virtuosity can distract readers from its thematic sadness and
loneliness. Hal Incandenza and Don Gately both use drugs to escape their sadness and
loneliness; by the novel’s end both are sober, but both experience profound mental
and physical trauma as a result. This chapter evaluates the conclusions of Hal’s and
Gately’s narratives, and claims that Gately’s narrative’s mournfulness is more hopeful
than would initially appear; it notes that both narratives’ conclusions take the form of
memories, and examines this correspondence in conjunction with the conclusion of
Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov; lastly, it considers how mourning and
melancholia affect IJ’s reader, who must cope with the novel’s refusal to offer
traditional narrative closure.51
According to a Freudian conception of the terms, IJ is a mournful and
melancholic text. It is replete with what Freud called ‘profoundly painful dejection,
cessation of interest in the outside world, loss of the capacity to love, inhibition of all
activity, and a lowering of the self-‐regarding feelings to a degree that finds utterance in
self-‐reproaches and self-‐revilings, and culminates in a delusional expectation of
50 William Blake, ‘The Marriage of Heaven and Hell’, in Blake: The Complete Poems, ed. by W.H. Stevenson, 3rd edn (Harlow: Pearson Education Ltd., 2007), pp. 106-‐130 (p. 114). 51 For examples of the parallels between The Brothers Karamazov and Infinite Jest see Timothy Jacobs, ‘The Brothers Incandenza: Translating Ideology in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov and David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest’, Texas Studies in Literature and Language, 49.3 (Fall 2007), 265-‐292 and Marshall Boswell, Understanding David Foster Wallace (Columbia: University of South Carolina UP, 2009), pp. 165-‐168.
34
punishment’; the absence of delusion differentiates mourning from melancholia.52 IJ’s
lack of a traditional conclusion perhaps prompts “painful dejection”: the novel’s last
pages before its “Notes and Errata” describe Gately’s waking alone on an empty beach
with ‘the tide way out’, and alludes to The Great Gatsby’s celebrated coda and to
Finnegans Wake’s self-‐perpetuating structure (IJ 981). The novel’s narrative currents
leave reader and protagonist littoraly stranded, looking for enlightenment; to seek
resolution, one must be borne, ‘riverrun […] from swerve of shore to bend of bay’,
recirculating back to the start of the text.53 The last time Hal narrates, he is lying on his
bedroom floor withdrawing from marijuana, his position an obvious parallel with
Gately’s post-‐Dilaudid-‐binge stasis. The difference, however, is that Gately’s concluding
memories – even his being forced to watch Eugene Fackelmann’s violent death – are
narrated dispassionately and without self-‐pity despite the excruciating pain his
gunshot wound causes him. Though Hal’s sudden withdrawal also causes him to suffer,
he indulges in “self-‐reproaches”, and imagines deliberately injuring himself to avoid
playing tennis, ‘becoming the object of compassionate sorrow rather than
disappointed sorrow (IJ 955).’
It is relatively straightforward to map a psychoanalytic model onto IJ and its
conclusion, in part because the text is suffused with obvious psychoanalytic signifiers.
Marshall Boswell notes, ‘Lacanian concepts permeate the entire novel,’ with the
character of Madame Psychosis ‘[providing] perhaps the richest, most overdetermined
focal point for [an] intricate critique of poststructuralist psychology.’54 Hal’s last
narrative act is to imagine his mother having sex with various men, ‘impossible to 52 Sigmund Freud, ‘Mourning and Melancholia’, in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud: On the History of the Psycho-‐Analytic Movement, Papers on Metapsychology and Other Works, ed. and trans. by James Strachey and others, 24 vols (London: Vintage, 2001), XIV, 237-‐258 (p. 244). Hereafter abbreviated SE. 53 James Joyce, The Restored Finnegans Wake, ed. by Danis Rose and John O’Hanlon (London: Penguin Classics, 2012), p. 3. 54 Understanding David Foster Wallace (Columbia: South Carolina UP, 2009) p.128; p. 132.
35
imagine’ in the case of his father, and possessed of ‘a kind of doomed timeless
Faulknerian feel’ in the case of his half-‐uncle; this culminates in a ‘not very erotic’
tableau involving John Wayne (no relation) (IJ 957). On the one hand, this functions as
a parody of the primal scene (in this case, scenes): a child witnesses parental sexuality
and is forced to confront his or her own ‘libidinal motive forces’, a traumatic
experience that Freud believed played a ‘predominant part […] in the formation of
neuroses’.55 On the other, it is a metaphor for onto-‐linguistic formation: Hal’s mother’s
grammatical militancy has firmly established the bounds within which Hal can
delineate his linguistic self.56 Hal is profoundly conflicted about his desire for her
approval; she asks him to remind her of a word she claims to have forgotten, and he
thinks how ‘he hated it that she could even dream he’d be taken in by the aphasiac
furrowing and finger-‐snapping, and then that he’s always so pleased to play along. Is it
showing off if you hate it (IJ 525)?’ Significantly, Hal is aphasic at the novel’s
commencement – though its opening scene is chronologically its last – so seemingly he
never successfully resolves his desire to constitute a linguistically independent self.
Hal, however, tends to conceive of desire abstractly; he used to collect
‘Byzantine erotica’, but is also ‘maybe the one male E.T.A. for whom lifetime virginity is
a conscious goal (IJ 29, 952; 634).’ This penchant for abstraction, abetted by the
‘paralytic thought helix’ of ‘marijuana thinking’, is a fundamental feature of Hal’s
melancholia (IJ 355). Many of his most intense moments of introspection are
precipitated by dreams or by his father’s films.57 Despite his preternatural linguistic
gifts (possibly enhanced by ‘esoteric mnemonic steroids’ his mother may have slipped
into his cereal) and his eidetic memory, Hal is still trapped within the limits of 55 ‘“An Infantile Neurosis” and Other Works’, SE, XVII, pp. 7-‐123 (p. 9). 56 Fundamental to Lacan’s and Judith Butler’s work is that subjectivity is always constituted to some extent by language; as Butler phrases it, ‘a subject comes into being after language, but always within its terms.’ ‘Conscience Doth Make Subjects of Us All’, Yale French Studies, 88 (1995), 6-‐26 (p. 6), q.v. 57 For examples of dreams, see IJ pp. 61-‐63, 67-‐68, 254, 770; for film cartridges, see pp. 689, 694-‐695, 703-‐704, 910-‐911, 945-‐947.
36
language’s symbolic order; indeed, according to Lacan, so are we all (IJ 30; 317).
Perhaps, then, his viewing of his late father’s films represents yet another kind of
metaphorical primal scene, one which Ned Lukacher calls ‘the interpretative impasse
that arises when a reader has good reason to believe that the meaning of one text is
historically dependent on the meaning of another text or on a previously unnoticed set
of criteria’.58 As Hal’s narrative concludes, he watches a film whose own conclusion
features a scene that parodies Harold Bloom’s ‘turgid studies of artistic influenza’, so
the notion of an intertextual primal scene seems plausible (IJ 1077). Since James
Incandenza supposedly created “Infinite Jest” in order to ‘contrive a medium via which
he and the muted son could simply converse. […] Make something so bloody
compelling it would reverse thrust on a young self’s fall into the womb of solipsism,
anhedonia, death in life,’ an examination of intertextuality seems crucial to
understanding Hal’s narrative’s conclusion (IJ 838-‐839).
Lukacher explains his conception of the primal scene thus: ‘[it is] the figure of
an always divided interpretative strategy that points toward the Real in the very act of
establishing its inaccessibility; it becomes the name for the dispossessive function of
language that constitutes the undisclosed essence of language.59 In other words,
interpretation is bound by the same rules as language, and can only point toward some
intact, undifferentiated Real that stands outside the text and can never be experienced
directly: it is ‘what resists symbolization absolutely.’60
If James Incandenza’s films do function as an intertextual primal scene, the
problem for Hal is that they embody the narcissism that he struggles to overcome; they
function too well as projections of his ego. ‘Accomplice!’ is, Hal theorizes, ‘abstract and
58 Primal Scenes: Literature, Philosophy, Psychoanalysis (Cornell UP, 1988) p. 24. 59 Lukacher, p. 24. 60 Jacques Lacan, ‘Discourse Analysis or Ego Analysis: Anna Freud or Melanie Klein’, in The Seminar of Jacques Lacan: Freud’s Papers on Technique 1953-‐1954, Book I, ed. by Jacques-‐Alain Miller, trans. by John Forrester (New York: Norton, 1991) pp. 62-‐70 (p. 66).
37
self-‐reflexive; we end up feeling and thinking not about the characters but about the
cartridge itself […] even though the cartridge’s end has both characters emoting out of
every pore (IJ 946).’ As Freud notes, ‘narcissistic identification with the [loved] object
then becomes a substitute for the erotic cathexis’; Hal, isolated at his narrative’s
conclusion, watches his father’s films in order to perpetuate his own narcissism, which
is particularly strong now he is sober.61 This is hardly surprising according to the
Freudian model: in order for self-‐revilings to occur, the subject needs to be obsessively
self-‐conscious. Hal, however, is in a double bind: he is compulsively self-‐aware, but
wishes to keep that compulsion at arm’s-‐length, which his dazzling linguistic precocity
helps him achieve. When Hal recalls the ‘Inner Infant’ support group he mistakenly
attended, and remembers the ‘old grief therapist’ he was sent to after his father’s
suicide, he associates both with koans: when asked how he feels, he has ‘to lie when
the truth is Nothing At All, since this appears as a textbook lie under the therapeutic
model. The brutal questions are the ones that force you to lie (IJ 954).’ Hal has spent
years cathecting linguistic performativity as a way to secure his mother’s love, though
Avril Incandenza, in a telling aside, is described as ‘very possibly Death incarnate (IJ
790).’ Such behaviour may be a manifestation of the so-‐called death drive: an
ultimately futile attempt to sate what can never be sated. Hal’s actions also represent
an instance of what Julia Kristeva sees as the mournful subject’s desire to recuperate
the lost mother – who is “lost” when the child enters language’s Symbolic order –
through ‘sign, image, [or] word’.62 When conversing with the aforementioned grief
therapist, Hal feels ‘self-‐consciousness and fear. Here was a top-‐rank authority figure
and I was failing to supply what he wanted (IJ 253).’63 Hal’s identity is convolved with
61 Freud, ‘Mourning and Melancholia’, p. 249. 62 Black Sun: Depression and Melancholia, trans. Leon S. Roudiez (New York: Columbia UP, 1989), p. 63. 63 In another example of intertextuality, the phrase ‘self-‐consciousness and fear’ recalls Barth’s ‘Lost in the Funhouse’: ‘For Ambrose it is a place of fear and confusion.’ Lost in the Funhouse (New York: Anchor Books, 1988), p. 72, q.v.
38
discursive performance, and he is always hyper-‐aware of his audience’s expectations.
Since Hal is in many ways Wallace’s fictional stand-‐in (a linguistically gifted, tobacco-‐
chewing tennis player) this self-‐consciousness may reflect Wallace’s anxieties about
the effects his text creates.
As discussed in the previous chapter, Hal’s frequent recourse to James
Incandenza’s films may represent Wallace’s inability to shake the influence of his
postmodern literary forefathers. Wallace’s early novella ‘Westward the Course of
Empire Takes Its Way’ is an unsuccessful attempt to transcend metafictional recursion
by staging its own failure, ‘and out of the rubble reaffirm the idea of art being a living
transaction between humans’.64 Hal’s melancholia perhaps represents a more mature
critique of linguistic self-‐consciousness, a humane evocation of the loneliness that
attends what Wallace called a ‘basically vapid urge to be […] linguistically
calisthenic.’65 Wallace came to deplore this trait in his own writing, and his sharing it
with Hal may be a kind of Freudian self-‐criticism.
Similarities between author and character continue; Wallace described his own
tennis game as one of ‘craven retrieval’, while Hal, aphasic at his college interview,
remembers ‘the sort of all-‐defensive game Schtitt used to have me play: the best
defense: let everything bounce off you; do nothing (IJ 9).’66 Hal’s tennis identity is
defined by the status of the other, and in his dedication to the game, and his desire to
fit in, he further self-‐effaces; at Enfield Tennis Academy, ‘If you are an adolescent, here
is the trick to being neither quite a nerd nor quite a jock: be no one. It is easier than
64 Larry McCaffery, ‘An Expanded Interview With David Foster Wallace’, in Conversations With David Foster Wallace, ed. by Stephen J. Burn (Jackson: Mississippi UP, 2012), p. 41. 65 D.T. Max, ‘The Unfinished’, New Yorker, 9 March 2009 <http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/03/09/090309fa_fact_max> [accessed 4 September 2012] (p. 5 of 13) 66 David Foster Wallace, ‘tennis player Michael Joyce’s professional artistry as a paradigm of certain stuff about choice, freedom, limitation, joy, grotesquerie, and human completeness’, in A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again (London: Abacus, 2008), p. 242.
39
you think (IJ 175).’ Passivity pervades Hal, but this subjective reliance on an active
opponent, or a clearly defined oppositional archetype, implies something more than
adolescent existential anxieties.67 In her outline of an implication of Lacanian theory,
Angelika Rauch writes, ‘the assumption of historicity’, how a subject constitutes her
self, ‘can be achieved only in relation to an other, that is, by means of an interlocution
with the analyst.’68 Given IJ’s complex engagement with Lacan, Hal’s narration, and
perhaps the narrative as a whole, may be driven by subjective lack (manque); in
Rauch’s formulation, ‘the “application” of an other to the self is psychologically
motivated by the desire, whether conscious or unconscious, to feel whole again.’69 Hal
desperately attempts to connect with an absent Other – his father – or an effectively
absent (m)other, from whom he is divided by language but whose linguistic approval
he still seeks; unsurprisingly, he feels that ‘inside there’s pretty much nothing at all’ (IJ
694).
Gately’s position scarcely seems an improvement, though the novel implies that
he leaves hospital not long before Hal enters for the second time. Because mourning is
not considered pathological, Freud has far less to say about it; indeed, mourning
constitutes a ‘normal affect[ive]’ response to grief.70 Freud does, however, link
mourning with melancholia:
Profound mourning […] contains the same painful frame of mind, the same loss of interest in the outside world – in so far as it does not recall him – the same loss of capacity to adopt any new object of love (which would mean replacing him) and the same turning away from any activity that is not connected with thoughts of him. It is easy to see that this inhibition and circumscription of the ego is the expression of an exclusive devotion to mourning.71
67 It also alludes to a post-‐structuralist metaphysics, promulgated by Derrida, Kristeva, Spivak et al., that elides the neat Cartesian boundaries between Self and Other and attempts to show that the presence of one term always carries with it the trace of the absent other. 68 ‘Post-‐Traumatic Hermeneutics: Melancholia in the Wake of Trauma’, Diacritics, 28.4 (Winter 1998), 111-‐120 (p. 113). 69 Rauch, p. 114. 70 Freud, ‘Mourning and Melancholia’, p. 243. 71 ibid.
40
For the majority of his life, drugs have been Gately’s object of love, and their loss leaves
him ‘progressively somehow better, inside, for a while, then worse, then even better,
then for a while worse in a way that’s still somehow better, realer, you feel weirdly
unblended, which is good, even though a lot of the things you now see about yourself
and how you’ve lived are horrible to have to see’ (IJ 351).
How Gately now sees himself and how he has lived is key to his narrative’s
conclusion. His childhood memories, previously repressed by his drug abuse, are
traumatic. His stepfather physically abused his alcoholic mother; she later suffered a
cirrhotic hemorrhage (IJ 840; 906). He lacks a ‘good memory, especially a memory of
childhood’, something Aloysha Karamazov argues is most ‘wholesome and useful for
life in the future’.72 Nevertheless, Gately, like Aloysha, is able to confront and transcend
suffering; unlike Hal, he can find salvation in emotion: ‘He could just hunker down in
the space between each heartbeat and make each heartbeat a wall and live in there (IJ
860).’ In the early days of his sobriety, ‘he started to almost reexperience things that
he’d barely ever been there to experience, in terms of emotionally’ (IJ 446). Mourning
helps Gately abide overwhelming ‘dextral pain’ because he no longer mourns drugs
and instead mourns his mother and his own formerly circumscribed ego (IJ 860).
Gately is acutely aware of addicts’ propensity for self-‐pity, but he can mourn past
events without succumbing to melancholia.
Gately’s eidetic recollection of his most serious drugs binge assists him in
resisting the powerful allure of ‘a medically necessary squirt’ of Demerol; instead, ‘he
thinks hard about anything else at all (IJ 888; 891).’ Gately’s final episode marks a rare
instance in IJ where self-‐consciousness is not paralyzing but brings emotional clarity.
Gately realizes his and Eugene Fackelmann’s drug use was delusional: ‘they opted
instead to obliterate the reality of the eye-‐scalding light and began truly bingeing on
72 Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, ed. and trans. by Susan McReynolds Oddo, 2nd edn (New York: Norton Critical Editions, 2011), p. 645.
41
Blues (IJ 935).’ Fackelmann’s name, which implies attempted communication (fax) and
a perpetual feeling of injustice (raised hackles), is apt: his ‘favorite phrase had been
“That’s a goddamned lie!” He’d used it in response to just about everything (IJ 919).’
Unfortunately, the phrase signifies only the profound solipsism addiction enforces; it
communicates only the addict’s relationship to himself and to his worldview. Solipsism
may obviate trauma for a time, but it can never assuage it, and Fackelmann’s grisly fate
serves as Gately’s caution: but for the grace of God he too could have been forced to
confront a reality unmediated by drugs.
Bobby C., who oversees Fackelmann’s death, inadvertently offers Gately sound
counsel when he tells him to ‘hold on to your heart (IJ 979).’ While the context is
grotesque, the words neatly demonstrate the novel’s elision of the Cartesian duality of
mind and body. Despite Hal’s on-‐court ‘genius’, he cannot reconcile his habitually
detached, abstract thinking with his sport’s physicality (IJ 14). Unsatisfying as a
solution, however, is James Incandenza, Sr.’s crude assertion, ‘thoughts in your mind
are just the sound of your head revving, and head is still body’ (IJ 159). Elizabeth
Freudenthal is to some extent correct to say, ‘each present moment of sensuous
experience [of Gately’s trauma] is almost unendurably painful, [but] abstract
rationalization of that moment, intellect detached from the physical, is that pain’s
source. Gately “abides” without narcotics by keeping his mental life thoroughly
physical,’ a process she dubs ‘anti-‐interiority’.73 What this misses, however, is that it is
precisely Gately’s interiority that ultimately helps him. He must “hold on to his heart”
in order not to “rationalize that moment”, and this allows an abstract idea, a painful yet
sacred memory, to save his life. IJ’s final paragraph’s description of Gately’s collapse
after he is injected with “Sunshine” illustrates this idea; though the word “collapse”
connotes catastrophic failure, when Gately falls, the floor ‘waft[s] up’ to meet him and
73 ‘Anti-‐Interiority: Compulsiveness, Objectification, and Identity in Infinite Jest’, New Literary History, 41.1 (Winter 2010), 191-‐211 (p. 206).
42
then ‘finally pounced’: rather than hitting bottom, his bottom reaches up to him (IJ
981).74 The distinction is subtle, but it illustrates AA’s dictum of acceptance: an addict
can ‘let [thoughts of a substance] come as they will, but [must] not Entertain them’ (IJ
890). Gately’s must try to ‘remember the pointless pain of active addiction’, and try to
accept ‘that at least this sober pain now has a purpose (IJ 446).’
This is reminiscent of the literary ethics Wallace grappled with in ‘Westward’:
the reader is treated as a lover and the author becomes ‘an architect who could hate
enough to feel enough to love enough to perpetrate the kind of special cruelty only real
lovers could inflict.’75 With characteristic self-‐consciousness, Wallace understood the
presumptuousness of such a statement: ‘where the fuck do “artists” get off deciding for
readers what stuff the readers need to be prepared for’?76 Yet IJ is cruel to its reader.
Its characters are all somehow damaged, deformed, traumatized, addicted, or clinically
depressed; its vocabulary is arcane, its structure fragmented; when it has forced the
reader to work hard looking up an obscure word, checking an endnote, or keeping
track of the non-‐linear chronology, it rewards her with ‘scenes of exquisite horror and
pain [that] come in, as it were, under the radar, and hence make an enormous
impact.’77 According to Frank Cioffi, this impact derives from the narrative’s ability to
implicate its reader in the traumas it describes, and the strongest aspect of his article
is his contention that IJ implicates the reader in a narrative performance;
consequently, ‘the novel becomes more real, and emotional response to it becomes
74 The insightful distinction between Gately hitting the floor and the floor reaching up to meet him comes from an Internet commenter with the inscrutable moniker “mr”. ‘Faces and Floors, Beginnings’, David Foster Wallace: English 166, Pomona College <http://machines.pomona.edu/166-‐2009/2009/05/04/faces-‐and-‐floors-‐beginnings-‐and-‐endings> [accessed 9 September 2012] (first comment), q.v. 75 ‘Westward The Course Of Empire Takes Its Way’, in Girl With Curious Hair (London: Abacus, 1997), p. 332. 76 McCaffery, p. 24. 77 Frank Cioffi, ‘“An Anguish Become Thing”: Narrative As Performance in David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, Narrative, 8.2 (May 2000), 161-‐181 (p. 162).
43
more intense.’78 Most disturbingly, because the reader feels complicit in the narrative’s
trauma, she then feels actual anguish: ‘we are not under the impression or illusion that
what is happening in the text is real; rather, for us it is real, it has become actual.’79
As with Gately’s pain, this “anguish become thing” serves a redemptive purpose.
Disturbing texts are able radically to transfigure the reader’s conscience; she becomes
addicted to the narrative’s performance and, perversely, wants more representations
of trauma because they help constitute the text’s emotional affect. But a disturbing
text’s strength is also its weakness; to echo Wallace, is it ethical to elicit this kind of
reaction from a reader? A literary folie à deux may turn out to be mere folly. Cioffi’s
claim, ‘IJ forces the reader into a divided consciousness – one part of consciousness
“performs for” the other’, does, however, imply a solution to the ethical problems it
inheres.80 If a reader’s consciousness is divided, one part can be detached from the
performance in which she engages. As this dissertation’s first chapter argued, IJ’s use
of endnotes manages ‘paradoxically to call increased attention to the world outside the
novel’, in part because it disrupts the process of reading, forcing the reader to transfer
her attention to another part of the text.81 Similarly, a divided consciousness gives the
reader an escape from anguish, a chance of respite. IJ also helps its reader by treating
her as an equal. Wallace claimed that for him, ‘fictional meaning is equally distributive:
the fiction is changed by the reader as much as the reader is changed by the fiction.’82
If the reader becomes part of the narrative performance, and suffers along with the
characters, she helps prosecute their suffering. But as Gately’s conclusion shows, such
suffering can be redemptive; the reader can exit the text and feel comforted. She may
feel the narrative tide has stranded her, unfulfilled, but equally it could be she has
made the tide go way out. 78 Cioffi, p. 172. 79 ibid. 80 Cioffi, p. 177. 81 Boswell, p. 125. 82 ibid.
44
The Word to Come: A Cantor of Infinite Jest He did not even know that a new life would not be given him for nothing, that it still had
to be dearly bought, to be paid for with a great future deed… But here begins a new account, the account of a man’s gradual renewal, the account of
his gradual regeneration, his gradual transition from one world to another, his acquaintance with a new, hitherto completely unknown reality.83
By taking a bullet intended for the morally and physically craven Randy Lenz,
and subsequently refusing prescription narcotics, Donald Gately embodies the
Dostoevskian notion of the reformed criminal, but his relatively new life of sobriety
has become barely endurable. Nevertheless, Gately does not suffer in vain, and Infinite
Jest establishes subtle references to Hamlet in order to apotheosize his trauma. Hal
Incandenza muses, ‘Hamlet, for all his paralysing doubt about everything, never once
doubts the reality of the ghost’, and IJ envies spiritual transfiguration and religion’s
impossible promise of ‘totality and reintegration’ (IJ 900).84 IJ’s ghost, James
Incandenza returned as wraith, enacts the novel’s art’s project of confronting the self
and seeing through the eyes of others.85
Gately’s renunciation of narcotics is spiritually profound: it is a literal self-‐
denial, a losing of one’s mind or praying for its loss (IJ 200). IJ’s enacts this structurally
by inverting the usual pattern of spiritual redemption – by which a subject’s trials are
eventually compensated for by spiritual replenishment – and making its conclusion
foreground Gately’s literal and spiritual trauma and his transgressions as a former
drug addict. Gately’s trauma is a delayed bouleversement, a double dis-‐figuration; he
has resisted addiction’s baroque figurations – through which a substance appears to be
‘one[‘s] true best friend and lover’ – but now lies mute, a figurant, unable to fulfil the
83 Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment, trans. and annotated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky (London: Vintage, 2004), p. 551. 84 Toon Staes, ‘“Only Artists Can Transfigure”: Kafka’s Artists and the Possibility of Redemption in the Novellas of David Foster Wallace’, Orbis Litterarum, 65.6 (2010), 459-‐480 (p. 461). 85 ibid., p. 462; p. 463.
45
cardinal AA precept of ‘Giving it Away’, which means sharing his story with others (IJ
273; 344). This latter dis-‐figuration may explain ‘Tiny’ Ewell’s bedside ‘Latin blunder’;
Ewell apparently means to say ‘se defendendo’ but instead says ‘se offendendo’ (IJ
814). Note 337 glosses this slip as ‘either a befogged muddling of a professional legal
term, or a post-‐Freudian slip, or (least likely) a very oblique and subtle jab at Gately
from a Ewell intimate with the graveyard scene from Hamlet (IJ 1076).’
Certainly oblique, IJ implies that for Ewell, Gately/Yorick is ‘abhorred in [his]
imagination.’86 Supine and scarcely able to bear the pain, Gately is now unable to give
Ewell pastoral support; before his injury, Gately had ‘bore […] on his back’ residents’
nightmares, and had answered their questions about sobriety.87 The newly sober Ewell
perhaps looks at Gately with horror because his condition painfully demonstrates the
sacrificial costs of fighting addiction. The cheerful, jesting Gately has disappeared, and
though it is strongly implied Gately recovers from his injury, the novel’s final two
hundred pages mark his acquaintance “with a new, hitherto completely unknown
reality”, in which a wraithlike James Incandenza communicates telepathically with
him.
On one level, IJ presents Gately as an archetypical tragic hero; his weakness
does not engineer his downfall, but it does intensify his suffering. Stephen Burn
identifies numerous mythical allusions and patterns within the novel, one of which
involves ‘Marathe see[ing] a constellation in the sky that resembles Gately’ and
‘not[ing] that [the] constellations make it seem “as if giants are looking over his
shoulder”’.88 This, however, suggests a refinement of the heroic topos, through which
Gately becomes spiritually remade so he can offer Hal possible redemption by
embodying the qualities two generations of Incandenza patriarchs lacked. The textual 86 The Arden Shakespeare: Hamlet, 3rd Series, ed. by Ann Thompson and Neil Taylor (London: Methuen Drama, 2006), V.1.177, p. 422. 87 Hamlet, V.1.176, p. 422; IJ, pp. 272-‐273. 88 Stephen Burn, David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest: A Reader’s Guide (New York: Continuum, 2011), p. 59.
46
cues are subtle, but again there are allusions to Hamlet that help explain Gately’s
unlikely status as avatar. Early in the novel, Hal imagines he ‘will have slept like a
graven image (IJ 17).’ “Graven image”, an allusion to Hamlet’s graveyard scene, also
has obvious religious connotations, and the simile occurs on the same page as Hal’s
memory of exhuming his father’s head with Gately, who forsees and reciprocates Hal’s
memory when he ‘dreams he’s with a very sad kid and they’re in a graveyard digging
some guy’s head up (IJ 934).’
This out of frame meeting between Hal and Gately, with its patricidal
symbolism, literally allows Hal access to his father’s head, but it also allows Gately
figuratively to take on a fatherly role. As wraith, James Incandenza can seemingly
communicate utterly with another subject by projecting a voice into his or her brain;
but rather than communicate with his son, he haunts Gately. Furthermore, he uses the
opportunity to confess to a fellow addict his own alcoholism, and his ‘fear that his
youngest and most promising son was experimenting with substances (IJ 838).’ While
this admission could be an attempt to achieve absolution, James perhaps suspects
Gately could be his intercessor, the corporeal manifestation of a ghostly presence Hal
intuits but cannot apprehend. Gately is perhaps Hal’s father reborn, a redemptive
figure galvanised to entelechy by spiritual communication, and consequently better
able to offer Hal counsel.89 In a final, fitting instance of spiritual coincidence, the
patient in the bed next to Gately’s is Enfield Tennis Academy student Otis P. Lord,
hospitalized after “playing God” during an Eschaton battle (IJ 809).90 In Alcoholics
Anonymous, rituals backed by a conception of a Higher Power replace addictive
substances, and members are encouraged to seek a sponsor. Gately’s apotheosis is an 89 Marshall Boswell argues ‘the “dead” Incandenza is “reborn” in the novel into a spokesman for Wallace himself, into Wallace’s own “wraith.”’ Such a view seems restrictive: in a sense the entire novel is Wallace’s “brain voice” communicating with his reader; and if Incandenza Sr. is a spokesman for Wallace, surely Hal Incandenza and Gately are too. Understanding David Foster Wallace (Columbia: South Carolina UP, 2009) p. 170, q.v. 90 Stephen Burn has also noted this neat coincidence: A Reader’s Guide, p. 35, q.v.
47
extension of this principle, but still it may not save Hal: it depends whether Hal’s
aphasia is drug-‐induced or is a consequence of his watching “Infinite Jest”.
As it does throughout, IJ creates art that stages its own failure in order to
nourish its reader. Perhaps the best, and strangest, example of this is Joelle van Dyne’s
radio persona, Madame Psychosis. The name suggests “metempsychosis”, the
supposed transmigration of the soul at death from one body to another. It is a similar
concept to the wraith’s “brain voice”, and implies a similarly unmediated, utter
communicative mode.
The opening monologue to Madame Psychosis’s radio show is a cryptic and
cynical admixture of the sacred and the profane:
And Lo, for the Earth was empty of form, and void. And Darkness was all over the Face of the Deep. And We said: Look at that fucker Dance (IJ 184).91
The biblical form is familiar, but the content is strange; it seems somehow
simultaneously glib and momentous. To further complicate matters, and to
proleptically anticipate an obvious criticism, we are told, ‘[this] opening bit […] Mario
Incandenza, the least cynical person in the history of Enfield MA, […] listening
faithfully, finds, for all its black cynicism, terribly compelling’ (IJ 184). Given the
novel’s sympathetic presentation of Mario, the reader is encouraged to concur with his
assessment and view the address as compelling in spite of its cynicism. But IJ also
91 Steven Moore has a fascinating article documenting the changes Wallace made to his first draft manuscript of IJ, which Wallace asked him to comment on. The original manuscript explained that Madame Psychosis’ ‘TRADEMARK OPENING LINES […] CAME FROM: DR. JAMES INCANDENZA’S THIRD SHORT FILM, ‘DARK LOGICS,’ ALSO UNSEEN PUBLICLY BECAUSE IT’S TERRIBLY OBLIQUE AND DRY, CONSISTING MOSTLY OF STILL SHOTS OF ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPTS HAVING THEIR PAGES TURNED BY A SKELETAL HAND: FRAUDULENT MATHEMATICAL DERIVATIONS OF GHASTLY THEOREMS FROM BENIGN AXIOMS, THE ADOLESCENT DIARIES OF FAMOUS DICTATORS, EXCERPTS FROM POST-‐GENESISTIC CHAPTERS OF A KIND OF PSEUDO-‐CONTEMPORARY BIBLICAL-‐TYPE THING [majuscule sic, though with font reduced in deference to the reader’s eyesight].’ Besides reinforcing the close artistic collaboration between Joelle and James, this gloss further illustrates, admittedly quite crudely, the contradictions Wallace wanted the Madame’s show to represent, e.g., sacred profanity, banal evil, etc. ‘The First Draft Version of Infinite Jest’, at The Howling Fantods <http://www.thehowlingfantods.com/ij_first.htm> [accessed 9 September 2012] (sec. commencing 469-‐473: cut, para. 5 of 6), q.v.
48
makes clear the problem with identifying too closely with Mario; he is, after all,
profoundly physically disabled. The implication is clear: to be uncynical in a world
pervaded by irony is to appear literally deformed.
But heartfelt cynicism can be read as metonymic of the novel’s paradoxical art.
While influenced by post-‐structuralism, IJ employs traditional, literally Classical,
narrative techniques. Avril Incandenza tells Mario, ‘if you’re not crazy then speaking to
someone who isn’t there is termed apostrophe and is valid art (IJ 592).’ IJ validates its
art through its commitment, albeit hedged and tentative, to the reader. It humanizes
the problems of self-‐consciousness, cynicism, addiction, and subjective flux in order to
try to transcend them. While it can never achieve perfect communion with its reader,
its attempt and subsequent failure can profoundly move her by offering a facsimile of a
spiritual “brain voice”. Mario loved ‘the first Madame Psychosis programs because he
felt like he was listening to someone sad read out aloud from yellow letters she’d taken
out of a shoebox on a rainy P.M. […] It is increasingly difficult to find valid art that is
about stuff that is real in this way (IJ 592).’ The black cynicism of the “And Lo”
monologue conceals admiration for religion’s ability to make the metaphysical
affective. The postmodern author may be dead; the post-‐postmodern author perhaps
artistically died for us, we readers. Each. IJ embeds us in diagnate infinity but is willing
to share the burden of establishing the paradoxical boundaries that make redemption
possible. In that infinite jest a newborn fire stands, waiting for a brother to share its
crown.
Author’s Acknowledgement The author wishes to thank the heroic efforts of Donal McQuillan, without whose help this dissertation would likely never have been finished let alone end up in the relatively coherent state in which it is now presented.
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