Infinite Jest

I've never read David Foster Wallace's weighty tome because I'm still recovering from Gravity's Rainbow. Before you think Shirley, you jest, allow me to plead that I was out of the country when Infinite Jest was published in 1996. I missed an entire period of contemporary lit the six years I lived in Costa Rica. This is a of course a ridiculous excuse. I plan to read DFW's novel one of these days. It can't be any more challenging than the one I'm currently (yes, still) reading, which by the way was published in 1998.

DFW died last week at the age of 46, an apparent suicide. In the midst of all the political bickering and financial wreckage, this news jumped out, shocked and upset me. (That other stuff merely upset me.) To the question, why does someone take his/her own life? I imagine because that life is unspeakably and painfully sad.

A couple of years back, I read DFW's collection of essays Consider the Lobster. One of the pieces examines John McCain during his 2000 bid for the Republican nomination. Who is this man, really? Can we get at the essence of someone who's been packaged and spun, as politicians invariably are? Is John McCain the real McCoy? My recollection is that DFW doesn't answer this question. My personal impression was that McCain was a fascinating guy, someone who wanted to both break icons and be one. A bit of a hothead, perhaps. A tad mean. A better choice than what we ended up with.

McCain may still want to believe he's an iconoclast, but Straight Talk has left the building. The maverick mantra sounds old and hollow. McCain's been packaged and repackaged, duct taped beyond recognition. Integrity and politics are apparently mutually exclusive.

You can put lipstick/aftershave on politics. It's still politics.