Lea's Updates en-US Sun, 31 Mar 2024 09:21:20 -0700 60 Lea's Updates 144 41 /images/layout/goodreads_logo_144.jpg Comment273797084 Sun, 31 Mar 2024 09:21:20 -0700 <![CDATA[Lea commented on Lea's review of Consider the Lobster and Other Essays]]> /review/show/5804200666 Lea's review of Consider the Lobster and Other Essays
by David Foster Wallace

Gaurav wrote: "Beautiful review, Lea. I am yet to read DFW, never really felt so pressed as to pick his book. However, your erudite wrtie-up here forced me to buy it iimedialtely. Thanks for sharing it :)"

Gaurav your review of DFW will be immaculate, I know it! I can't wait for you to read him and do a deep-dive essay on his writing as you do! ]]> Comment273796870 Sun, 31 Mar 2024 09:15:35 -0700 <![CDATA[Lea commented on Lea's review of Good Morning, Midnight]]> /review/show/6212964433 Lea's review of Good Morning, Midnight
by Jean Rhys

Joe wrote: "You sure do soak up the written word. I wish I had you to write book reports for me in school."

Hahah Joe, this really cracked me up, because I did write reports on required reading for other people. ]]> Comment273796622 Sun, 31 Mar 2024 09:08:34 -0700 <![CDATA[Lea commented on Lea's review of August 25, 1983]]> /review/show/6364634286 Lea's review of August 25, 1983
by Jorge Luis Borges

Borges is definitely in the realm of one of the most elusive of the writers. Labyrinth is the ultimate and perfect association for him and all of his work. I think you would enjoy this story Antigone! It has a doppelganger and is set in a dream. What could a person want more? ]]> Comment273795802 Sun, 31 Mar 2024 08:45:40 -0700 <![CDATA[Lea commented on Lea's review of The Plague]]> /review/show/3119871248 Lea's review of The Plague
by Albert Camus

Tamoghna wrote: "Glad to know you loved it so much, Lea, fabulous review!"

It is still on my mind, that's how much I loved it! Thank you, T :) ]]> Review6364634286 Fri, 22 Mar 2024 02:02:35 -0700 <![CDATA[Lea added 'August 25, 1983']]> /review/show/6364634286 August 25, 1983 by Jorge Luis Borges Lea gave 5 stars to August 25, 1983 (Audiobook) by Jorge Luis Borges
bookshelves: short-stories, magic-realism, fiction, classic, death, dreams
"Outside were other dreams, waiting for me."

"Blindness isn't darkness--it's a form of loneliness."

"Every writer ends by being his own least intelligent disciple." ]]> Review6212964433 Sun, 28 Jan 2024 09:59:18 -0800 <![CDATA[Lea added 'Good Morning, Midnight']]> /review/show/6212964433 Good Morning, Midnight by Jean Rhys Lea gave 4 stars to Good Morning, Midnight (Paperback) by Jean Rhys
bookshelves: classic, feminism, fiction, literary-fiction, sexuality-eros
”After the first week I made up my mind to kill myself- the usual whiff of chloroform. Next week, or next month, or next year I’ll kill myself...�

Some people have the ill fate of cycling in the storms of lover archetype all their lives, their existence defined by an unyielding and devastating trajectory where joy hinges precariously on the capricious whims of the Other.

Sasha, the protagonist of Good Morning, Midnight, incarnates the pathos of all forsaken lovers in the bleak narrative of the intimate experience of loss. And what is a better city to get lost in the disorientation of solitary abandonment than Paris? City of both love and desperation, perfect for a lover’s mindless hedonism and exuberant fatalism, as well as its ensuing void. The beauty, the glamour, and the romantic atmosphere mixed with decrepit, budget hotels where Sasha wants to drink herself to death. With frequent thoughts of suicide, she meanders Paris streets half-alive like an automaton, and even the mere arrangement of the passing of time becomes troublesome. In her dissociation and disconnection from everything - including herself - Sasha illuminates the deep suffering and the cold barrenness of internal desolation. The center of the novel is her fragmented subjective experience of the circumstances accompanied by pain so overbearing it is accompanied by deep disorientation - of who you are, where are you going, what are you supposed to do, and even the meaning of your life. Slowly falling to pieces, the aftermath of abandonment is an impoverished existence where there is nothing at all. A void of blankness and nihilism.

It is through this lens that we witness Sasha's world in 1930s Paris come to life, a vivid tableau of romantic suffering leading to an existential crisis.

”I am empty of everything. I am empty of everything but the thin, frail trunks of the trees and the thin, frail ghosts in my room.�

A woman’s true love has a mark of endurance, selfless giving, and unwavering commitment. Rhys, donning the alter ego Sasha, stands as a testament to the profound love wielded by highly intellectual women. For reasons both elusive and indefinite, these women are drawn to lovers who possess the capacity to crush their very souls. But much like Frida Kahlo, they possess the remarkable ability to transfigure their pain into great art—a testament to the beautiful transfiguration of passion and pain into creation.

The madness in love extends beyond mere affection; it envelopes the obsession of being seen through the lens of one's lover. Without the penetrating gaze of a beloved, Sasha experiences a disconcerting sense of self-loss. It transcends the loss of a singular lover; it's a forfeiture of an entire version of reality and the self. Sasha's paranoia weaves a web around her, a fear of being perceived by others in any conceivable manner—a testament to the interplay of vulnerability and core identity in the realm of love. It is not that it is only the lover’s heart at stake - their whole essence and identity is.

“I’m such a fool. Please don’t take any notice of me. Just don’t take any notice and I’ll be all right�.

Sasha’s value goes through deflation in the horrific labyrinth of solitude and despair. The devastating definition of a woman’s value is dictated through distorting mirrors of the male gaze, where society often conditions the inherent value of women through a narrow prism of romantic and erotic desirability.

Which opens up a poignant question about women’s identity. What becomes of a woman when she is deemed undesirable? A woman who only serves for exploitation and mistreatment grapples with a painful erosion of self-respect. The resultant brew of resentment and profound self-hatred extends not only towards her but also towards humanity. The unbearable weight of being perceived as worthless by a society that devalues her transforms Sasha into a cold-brewed misanthrope—hating any gaze, averse to humanity's reflection that renders her as nothing more than a vessel for disregard.

“And when I say afraid- that’s just a word I use. What I really mean is I hate them. I hate their voices, I hate their eyes, I hate the way they laugh�..I hate the whole bloody business. It’s cruel, it’s idiotic, it’s unspeakably horrible. I never had the guts to kill myself or I’d have got out of it a long time ago. So much the worse for me. Let’s leave it at that.�

In disillusionment, she loses faith in humanity, in herself, and in life. The dreams of youth and the aspirations for the future, once vibrant, now echo as distant, unattainable whispers in Sasha's attempt to relive them—a futile pursuit, as they can never be resurrected.

“I have no pride � no pride, no name, no face, no country. I don’t belong anywhere. Too sad, too sad…�

The heart of the novel is the experience of loss and painful dwelling in it. One review skillfully highlights the contrast in how men and women navigate grief, drawing parallels with Miller's Tropic of Cancer. Miller, after leaving his wife, seeks refuge in Paris through prostitutes and self-importance, while Sasha, left by her husband, immerses herself in the suffocating embrace of despair. Men often turn to new experiences, storms of lust, or even suicide to escape emotional pain, whereas women emerge as heroes in enduring and withstanding such suffering. It's no coincidence that women stood tall at the cross—a symbolic representation of humanity's ultimate suffering.

Can one person go through the darkness of pain and come out? The novel is at least ambivalent. Reminiscing about the past can keep you stuck, or give you the freedom to move from it. The ultimate hurt and starting point of freedom is accepting the absence of reciprocity of love.

“When I saw him looking up like that I knew that I loved him, and that it was for always. It was as if my heart turned over, and I knew that it was for always. It's a strange feeling - when you know quite certainly in yourself that something is for always.�

Sasha has to make amends with the fact it is over, and that the heart was given in the wrong place, to the wrong person. The hurt is so permeating and constant that there is no way to run away from it. Pain that transcended the limits of being able to return to the starting position. Cut so deep it can’t never heal. Observation of forever reaching its finitude while the whole fabric of reality falls apart.

“People talk about the happy life, but that’s the happy life when you don’t care any longer if you live or die.�

It is easy to continue the self-destructive pattern even when the affair is over just like Sasha with depressive alcoholism in the empty room, or in bed with incidental lovers. With little consolation, or none at all.
Sasha is all despondent lovers who are not hiding from their grief, but embracing it and seeing the world from it, no matter how hard it is.

Good Morning, Midnight is an epitaph of all the people who loved and lost and almost lost themselves in their pain. Deeps of suffering that can never be verbalized, only captured in words with disjointed fragments of the subjective realm, glimpses, and pale reflections of the unfathomable sadness.

In Rhys's words, ”life is too sad; it's quite impossible.� ]]> Review6093480470 Sat, 13 Jan 2024 07:44:44 -0800 <![CDATA[Lea added 'Trust']]> /review/show/6093480470 Trust by Hernan Diaz Lea gave 3 stars to Trust (Paperback) by Hernan Diaz
bookshelves: fiction, owned, history-historical, literary-fiction
”One’s reality is another’s delusion.�

In the complexities of human perception, one's reality often serves as the elusive counterpart to another's delusion. We all grapple with the fine balance between subjectivity and the quest for objective truth, assuming one believes in its existence.
”Trust� is an interesting experimental novel that endeavors to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of perception, trying to echo the works of literary greats in the process. Diaz boldly embarks on an ambitious quest to weave a postmodern tapestry within the traditional fabric of the American novel, and sometimes disappointingly falls flat in the process.

Rooted in the opulence and fervor of 1920s New York, his narrative is evidently inspired by Wharton and Fitzgerald, immersing itself in the quintessential American dream—an ethos of egoistical capitalism and individualism espoused by the enigmatic and highly controversial Ayn Rand. Rand is often hated for openly verbalizing the core beliefs that drive the modern world.
Within this milieu, status and purpose are found in the Gatsbyan pursuit of wealth, a narrative where money, in its irrational accumulation, makes the very fabric of reality.
If you are enough entrenched in self-serving maxims, you too can live the American dream and be the ideal of a “self-made� man.

The central figures of the novel, Andrew and Helen Bevel, a New York financier and his wife, stand as the embodiment of this ethos possessing wealth surpassing the GDP of entire nations. Money, in Diaz's narrative, transcends its material constraints, evolving into a numinous force that purchases not only worldly goods but the respect and heroic stature coveted by society. It purchases a new version of reality, a promise of a new version of self.

In a philosophical reverie, Diaz contemplates the metaphysical underpinnings of money and its entanglement with the power structures of finance, connecting its ontology to considerations about inequality and other real-life issues. Money often deemed the most intimate and private of subjects, becomes the focal point of introspection.

“Money. What is money?� he would mutter to himself. “Commodities in a purely fantastic form.�

What is the thing that makes money rule all and what makes it create such mythical creatures as Musk, Bezos, Gates, or anyone who accumulates wealth above all measure?
The possession of substantial wealth transcends mere affluence; it constitutes a multidimensional state that extends beyond material opulence. In the modern world, rich people become saints of capitalism on whose altar many will bow their knees in restless pursuit of the obsession of more. An insatiable hunger lurks beneath the veneer of ambition. We crave more—more recognition, more possessions, more moments of fleeting ecstasy. It's the ceaseless pursuit of the 'I,' the insistent tug of a selfhood hungry for validation in a marketplace teeming with competing egos.
The novel's thematic core delves into the symbiotic relationship between money and fiction, unveiling the role of wealth and power in ”bending and aligning reality itself� to one’s will. In the labyrinth of egoistic capitalism, the appetite for more is not merely a preference; it's a manifesto, a declaration of existence in a world that measures worth in quantifiable increments. We navigate this societal bazaar with a shopping cart of desires, each acquisition a testament to our standing in the grand bazaar of self-importance.

Yet, in this relentless pursuit, we may find ourselves ensnared in the paradox of plenty—amidst abundance, a gnawing emptiness persists. The 'more' we accumulate becomes a fleeting mirage, dissipating just as we approach its shimmering allure.

”Trust� delves into the trap of the human spirit that money represents—a modern-day holy grail, a philosopher's stone, that fails to deliver to promise of ecstasy and transfiguration. The narrative prods readers to ponder the transformative power of immense fortune and its potential to shape any future one wants, or thinks they want. The illusion of wealth becomes shattered in rich man's dystopian future as a poignant reflection on the isolation it begets—a lonely existence where the blanket of one's public image serves as the sole comfort, rendering the individual a mere projection of society's idea of success and freedom, without the person's grasp of the true essence of those values.

”So if money is fiction, finance capital is the fiction of a fiction. That's what all those criminals trade in: fictions... Money is at the core of it all. An illusion we've all agreed to support. Unanimously.�

The tragic narrative arc of Andrew Bevel, reminiscent of Gatsby's ill-fated pursuit, unfolds as a pursuit of his own ghostly image. Wealth begets the power to construct false narratives that offer a semblance of freedom from the judgments of others. Yet, like Gatsby, the wealth fails to liberate him from the shackles of self-deception and a reluctance to confront the fundamental truths of his existence. Yes, as Bevel and Gatsby, one can have all the worldly power and wealth, and still be overwhelmed and riddled with shame, desperately clinging to other people's perception of themselves to the point of addiction. The more accolades amassed, the more self-hate seems to gather in the shadowy recesses of the psyche, a paradoxical companion to the glitz and glamour.

They, adorned in the regalia of influence, find themselves desperately clutching to the perceptions of others as if they were a lifeline. It's an addiction, an insidious yearning for external validation to stave off the encroaching tide of self-doubt. The more eyes applaud, the more hollow the applause seems to ring. In the pursuit of worldly triumphs, the corridors of power become a labyrinth of self-deception.

As the narrative unfolds in a Rashomonian structure, Diaz probes the essential question: Whose narrative should we Trust?

In the metafictional legacy of Borges and Calvino, the novel fragments into four different parts with distinct narratives and voices that are in communication with each other. Each part interrogates the reliability of the other, creating a literary kaleidoscope that challenges the reader's perception. The narrators of almost all parts either are or could be considered unreliable with unpure motives.

There is also a shift in literary style, the first part being a self-proclaimed hommage to Warthon, Henry James and Fitzgerald, but in reality, landing more closely to the style of Taylor Jenkins Raid than the literary titans.

The second part is meant to be informative and dry, written by Ida, Bevel's ghostwriter, a fabricated reality of what our protagonist wanted to be the truth about him and his wife’s life, inspired by the autobiographical style of great men of American history that Bevel wholeheartedly wants to be remembered as.

In the third part, a memoir by Ida, Bevel’s ghostwriter, more truth is presumingly revealed, and in Ida’s memoir, the writing style becomes more modern, philosophical and reflective. Marx is mentioned as Diaz’s influence and this section gives a commentary on capitalism and its leftist critique in the voice of Ida's anarchist father.

Here the other fundamental idea of a novel is revealed - the greatness of women hidden in history written by men. The bending of a woman’s character to fit into the myth the man in her life needed for himself. Complicated search for the truth of women’s lives and their own voices in men male-dominated world. But Ida has many motives for being unreliable, emotionally involved, and appalled by male narratives that dominate the world. Her writing is inspired by detective fiction she adored in youth, by Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers: “These women showed me I did not have to conform to the stereotypical notions of the feminine world.� They showed me that there was no reward in being reliable or obedient: The reader’s expectations and demands were there to be intentionally confounded and subverted.�

The grand finale of the book is a disjointed narrative of dying Mildred Bevel's morphine-addled diary, which serves as the crescendo of revelation—her nonlinear perspective where past, present, and future coalesce in a feverish dreamscape.
Influenced by feminist literary giants such as Woolf, Rhys and Lessing, this section unveils the untold stories of women relegated to the shadows of history—a secret creative force behind the lives of men.

“Short selling is folding back time. The past making itself present in the future.�

In the tradition of Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s �The Yellow Wallpaper this section plays in the idea of women locked behind doors which is the generative power of men’s lives. The genius women whose voices were marginalized, silenced, made appear mad like a woman in the attic through history - voices of women we may only hear distorted - through the stories of their successful husbands or in no way at all. The genius of women who rule from the shadows, often unclaimed and unrecognized by the collective, still contains the intellectual fuel for men. Helen’s voice brings the unnamed and untold stories buried beneath American financial power.
Here achievement and money are not essential - being is.

In the metanarrative of the novel, the same question is posed again and again, whose narrative do we Trust?
From what I gathered, all the readers seem to consider the last part of the novel it great reveal - a reveal of the truth so concealed in previous voices. But I can’t help but wonder why.
Because the last two sections are written by women? Because they are written in a more appealing, literary, postmodern style? Because the last part was written by a dying woman? We often forget that women also have their own mythologies of their identities - sometimes containing inflation of their own. They can also be threatened by the power of men and create their own grandiose narrative of themselves. Marriages are complex and our perceptions of ourselves as partners are full of fallacies.

Reader's reactions seem to attest that we can be inclined to put the subjectivity of women at the altar of truth, equalizing it with objective reality. The marginalization of certain narratives in history doesn't inherently imbue them with an infallible veracity. The authoritative gaze of men has long shaped history, yet what contemporary forces dictate our narrative preferences, tethering us to one story over another? Is our embrace of fiction marked by an unsettling ease, a tendency to accept without due scrutiny? The fallacy in our convictions, whether about heroes, victims, or the truth we hold, demands a painful awareness—a call for unwavering critical examination.

We seem to be in our own inner conflict of wanting to believe the powerful but also, especially in recent eras, being inclined to take a side of those marginalized, traumatized, the underdogs, those who are sick and suffer even when our logic tells us they hold important, but only one piece of the puzzle of reality, equally locked in their own subjective experience.

It is important to bring the validity of the plurality of narratives that chart the complexity of truth, in history much as in the present day. While reading this book you can also observe how easily it is to discard the narrative of the person you don’t like, the person who has what you don’t have, the authoritarian person of wealth and power. We often too easily trash the objectives of people and groups we have something against as our hidden jealousy conceals our own drive to power - forgetting that we are discarding sometimes the vital fragments of reality - the truth we don’t like or the truth we don’t want to be the truth because the different narrative is more appealing to us. It is more enticing to consider that all of Andrew's wealth is a product of Helen’s wit, not his own, isn’t it? But as always, objective truth itself glides through our fingers.

In the end, we all like narratives that serve us psychological purposes even if that is one of those altruistic ones, being on the side of the disadvantaged and somewhat, oppressed.
In this kaleidoscopic exploration of narratives, Diaz prompts readers to ponder the acceptance of fiction and the ease with which certain narratives supersede others.
The plurality of perspectives emerges as a vital force, unveiling the intricate complexity of truth and challenging our propensity to discard narratives that diverge from our preconceived notions.

However, despite the brilliance of Diaz's conceptual framework, a lingering sense of unrealized potential permeates the novel for me. The author, like a literary chameleon, mimics diverse writing voices, replicating styles with varying degrees of success. The novel, no matter the interesting metaphysical ideas, at times feels like a literary exercise, a mosaic of styles awaiting the unearthing of Diaz's distinct narrative voice. He has yet to find his own reality and his own voice.
But considering the Pulitzer prize is already on his shelf at this stage of his writing, he does not need to sweat.
"Trust" stands as a testament to his literary prowess, an interesting exploration of narratives that transcend temporal boundaries, inviting readers into a realm where reality dances with the elusive delusions of powerful and rich, and disenfranchised. ]]> UserChallenge49647016 Wed, 03 Jan 2024 08:49:42 -0800 <![CDATA[ Lea has challenged herself to read 160 books in 2024. ]]> /user/show/38055348-lea 11634
She has read 39 books toward her goal of 160 books.
 
39 of 160 (24%)
Create your own 2024 Reading Challenge » ]]> Review5804200666 Tue, 29 Aug 2023 01:55:52 -0700 <![CDATA[Lea added 'Consider the Lobster and Other Essays']]> /review/show/5804200666 Consider the Lobster and Other Essays by David Foster Wallace Lea gave 5 stars to Consider the Lobster and Other Essays (Hardcover) by David Foster Wallace
bookshelves: non-fiction, philosophy, politics
Have you ever experienced an intellectual fascination so intense that it compelled you to explore every author favored by the individual in question? That is what brought DFW more to my attention, a writer I had previously considered too intricate, masculinely inclined, and postmodern to align with my traditional and feminine sensibilities.

But having read this, there's little room for doubt in my mind that David Foster Wallace was a writer of exceptional talent, his profound intelligence and extensive erudition apparent in his essays. His works exemplify the art of deep thinking, demonstrating an acute awareness of the complexities of the world. He does not only think profoundly and originally, but also widely, horizontally and vertically. Wallace conveys his intellectual prowess without being overbearing, presenting essays that reveal a multidimensional author - brilliant, and captivatingly unpredictable in his choice of subjects of essays. A diverse range of topics in these essays includes pornography (a personal favorite), the works of Updike, Kafka, and Dostoevsky, the life of Tracy Austin, McCain's 2000 presidential campaign, the distinction between descriptive and prescriptive grammar, all the way to the ethics of boiling lobsters alive.

"At the essence of pornography is the image of flesh used as a drug, a way of numbing psychic pain. But this drug lasts only as long as the man stares at the image�. In pornographic perception, each gesture, each word, each image, is read first and foremost through sexuality. Love or tenderness, pity or compassion, become subsumed by, and are made subservient to, a “greater� deity, a more powerful force�. The addict to pornography desires to be blinded, to live in a dream. Those in the thrall of pornography try to eliminate from their consciousness the world outside pornography, and this includes everything from their family and friends or last Sunday’s sermon to the political situation in the Middle East. In engaging in such elimination the viewer reduces himself. He becomes stupid."

His selection of topics suggests a commitment to his philosophy: a great mind can never be bored and it finds fascination in any subject it delves into. His linguistic richness and structural innovation showcase a mind of a genius, able to extract detailed intellectual constructions from banal events, and the binary thinking prevalent in modern society. He might be the one writer who captured the essence of the philosopher’s stone with his writing - his written word can turn anything into gold.

Wallace is not only smart for the sake of being smart, but he is also smart because he cares about the world. DFW's writing is not only articulate and intelligent but also sensitive and subtly emotional. His reflective analysis is characterized by a hyper-reflection and freedom of rambling that might seem inconsequential to others but is precisely what attracts certain readers to his work.

In his works, Wallace communicates his inner world of a melancholic idealist, a tormented truth-seeker who grapples with imposter syndrome, the great plague of all intelligent people, candidly and transparently. Superficially, some might label Wallace as pretentious due to his interpolations, digressions, and pseudo-philosophies - qualities that serve as both strengths and weaknesses. However, dismissing him as such overlooks the authenticity, goodness, and humility that infuse his writing. What sets Wallace apart from classical pretentious intellectual narcissists is his deep-seated concern for the world and sensitivity to what means to be a human. His intellectual self-absorption is balanced by his vulnerability, a quality that lays his emotions bare. While DFW remains the center of his universe, what a universe it is: captivating yet often bleak.

Much like how he analyzed Dostoyevsky, DFW navigates morality without moralizing. He delves into intricate ethical dilemmas without resorting to shortcuts that lead to logical fallacies. He doesn't claim to possess all the answers, instead meticulously examining moral conflicts, sometimes leaving readers with more questions than resolutions, and an underlying existential turmoil. Although deciphering Wallace's political or religious beliefs from his writing might be challenging, his ambiguity and struggle with his own hypocrisy add a vital layer of authenticity to his work.

Wallace's sentiments echo those of a lost soul, passionate about searching for answers but struggling to find them, for himself and for others, with his internal conflict subtly painting his transfixing thought process. His analysis often doesn't reach a synthesis, consumed as he is by unanswerable worldly questions. He feels and thinks too deeply - both his greatest blessing and curse that leads into the abyss of depression.

Wallace believed that the capital Truth resides in free will. However, this realization comes with a heavy burden of perpetual self-assessment, fostering isolation, intense self-absorption, and overwhelming self-awareness. Once you acknowledge that your own flaws are nothing but a result of your own doing, the scope of hyper-reflexivity becomes limitless. Moreover, the responsibility of making crucial decisions that determine your destiny can instill insurmountable pressure to rely solely on yourself.

Irrespective of the topic, Wallace consistently seeks the essence of phenomena. His analysis of contemporary society is fundamentally metaphysical and subversive. He critiques solipsism, arguing that the current social structures breed egocentrism, fear, loneliness, and sorrow. Ironically, DFW himself is profoundly and transparently self-centered in an infinite quest for peace of his own mind.

Wallace's endorsement of self-sacrifice seems rooted in self-interest -the idea that sacrificing oneself is necessary to ultimately save oneself. Despite his genuine desire to care for others, his philosophy revolves around the self, often contemplating the false self and grappling to unearth the authentic one. This creates an individual who is both astute in perception and profoundly isolated, his keen observations of the world leaving him detached.

“Is it possible really to love other people? If I’m lonely and in pain, everyone outside me is potential relief—I need them. But can you really love what you need so badly? Isn’t a big part of love caring more about what the other person needs? How am I supposed to subordinate my own overwhelming need to somebody else’s needs that I can’t even feel directly? And yet if I can’t do this, I’m damned to loneliness, which I definitely don’t want …so I’m back at trying to overcome my selfishness for self-interested reasons. Is there any way out of this bind?�

Wallace left nothing unexamined, even his self-centredness, which transforms his narcissism into charm, avoiding the trap of becoming hollow intellectualization. He embodies the paradox of deeply caring for others while remaining intensely focused on himself.

The versatileness of his writing which at times borders with stream-of-consciousness ramblings does not take away from his recognisability in different essays, his signature wit and style, style only being simplification in an absence of a better word, but more of the personality and charm, his spirit, the sign of the true canonical writer, as he himself describes the great writers, the kind one can recognize within paragraphs. The interpolation is palpable in his work, and footnotes often contain even more profound material than the main text. This isn't accidental; it's an embodiment of his philosophical approach to thought, the pursuit of truth in the overlooked corners rather than the obvious center.
DFW is working at the edge, posing obscure questions about the bizarre, mad world we live in, in an equally bizarre yet innovative manner. It is a wild ride being inside his brain, even for a few essays.

It is rightful to label Wallace a postmodern philosopher, a hero of hypersensitive, mordant, rueful and lonely observers of the world. His writing serves as an exercise in inquisitive, creative, experimental thinking that stretches the limits of comprehension. It testifies to the potency of a brilliant artist's ability to challenge and encourage readers to contemplate in ways they wouldn't otherwise, without access to profound literature.

Consider the Lobster, consider great literature and consider DFW. ]]>