Oh, and she raises her hand again...

So I am going to proceed to fire out another post, pretending to not be wholly self-conscious about this almost 9:1 ratio. I’m starting to feel like ‘that kid’ in your psychology class who won’t freaking shut up, and has to proceed to comment at any given chance, in addition to sharing awkward personal stories about his aunt Irene. That same kid, who everyone secretly wants (by some act of God) to suddenly go mute…only he doesn’t know it.

Quite possibly one of my favorite passages thus far. In the post tennis drills locker room rag session, Wallace is carefully drafting out each of his characters. T. Schacht is the walking med case who spends significant time in the bathroom due to his Crohn’s disease. Hal makes this priceless observation.

Pg. 103

“Something humble, placid even, about inert feet under stall doors. The defecatory posture is an accepting posture, it occurs to him. Head down, elbows on knees, the fingers laced together between the knees. Some hunched timeless millennial type of waiting, almost religious. Luther’s shoes on the floor beneath the chamber pot, placid, possibly made of wood, Luther’s 16th century shoes, awaiting epiphany. The mute quiescent suffering of generations of salesmen in the stalls of train-station johns, heads down, fingers laced, shined shoes inert, awaiting the acid gush. Women’s slippers, centurions’ dusty sandals, dockworkers hobnailed boots, Pope’s slippers. All waiting, pointing straight ahead, slightly tapping. Huge shaggy-browed men in skins hunched just pasted the firelight’s circle with wadded leaves in one hand waiting.”

Defecation is the great equalizer among men. No one is above the basic necessity of bowel movements. After having worked in a hospital longer than is needed to permanently warp/damage my sense of humor, I’ve heard plenty of euphemisms (my particular favorite: crack spackle) and incredible stories to supply any conversation gone south.

Aside from all the things that differentiate people, money, materials, education, or appearance – everybody poops. (Somehow someone coined this for a book title and made enough money to retire…had I only though of this sooner, I would be taking credit for the immature giggles in bookstores nationwide.) Not only that, but it’s the same stuff for all of us, rotting half digested foodstuffs we ate only hours prior. Whether we acknowledge it or not, everyone is just a complex version of an open tube, one end your mouth, one end your anus.

The point though is the feet. Hal says that the position is the same, since the beginning of time…placid and accepting, feet pointing ahead. It seems a humble gesture of man submitting to the will of nature. Perhaps it is a natural state of epiphany, every man’s sanctuary; a place one can truly validate being alone – and frequently. A ceremonious return to the same humble position.

Perhaps that is why conversations that take place in public restrooms are so disturbing. Like dying, defecating is a deeply personal act. It is a man’s own business with Mother Nature. None should be interrupted to chat about, “what’s next on the agenda” or “your last phone conversation with person X.” There are certain unspoken rules in society – provoked upon us by instinct. You don’t talk when you squat.

Religious reformists or teenage-angsty-pot-smoking tennis players alike, crap happens. It is a simple pattern, and reminder that we are all simply human, regardless of successes or walloping failures. On next occasion while choosing between reading materials (sports section or Infinite Jest) or obnoxiously unraveling the toilet paper dispenser, remember that if nothing else, at least we all have this in common.

What the Weird?

Questions:
pg. 93 “herd of feral hamsters?” Was I suppose to read this as some off-beat reference to the Wheelchair Assassins, or is this some legit introduction to a future breed of rogue rodent domestic defectives? confused?

pg. 121… “Enter Millicent Kent?” Umm…not going to elaborate on this one because I have nowhere to go with it. Merely posing the topic.

pg. 127-128 “Lyle the yogic guru?”
Okay, this supposedly Lyle character is hysterical and completely bizarre, but what can I say charming too. I mean he licks people’s sweat! I haven’t quite figured out how exactly he perches on a towel dispenser…because it must be larger than my head had first imagined. “He just sits there. I want to be like that. Able to just sit all quiet and pull life toward me…” I secretly agree with the unidentified I. (I think I always assume it is Hal speaking, I’m not sure why. Is it Wallace entering his own prose? That doesn’t seem like his thing, but going off of what I expect hasn’t been a good predictor thus far). Oh yeah, “…one forehead at a time.” Ha. Astounding.

What to love enough not to think two times?

Main topic: pg. 105-109: The Exchange between Steeply and Marathe (of which I have still not decided how to pronounce…?)

So other than the outrageous and ridiculous circumstances in which we find our two characters (prosthetic breasts askew and all) there’s this brilliant exchange. Although I have still yet to figure out who is on whom’s side, and for what “greater cause” each is attaching himself to; Wallace tackles or at least provokes the debate of fanaticism, patriotism, and loyalty.

Steeply references another agent and his associations with a political figure named Luria. He says that the love between them is, “the sort the gets sung about, the kind people die for and then get immortalized in song.” He continues referencing several historical and tragic couples to prove his point. (This is one of the things I love about Wallace. You can tell the guy is just smart. Apparently he won an Outstanding University Researcher award while a professor at Illinois State (where is started writing Infinite Jest).)

That dialogue progresses, identifying the origin of the word, fanatic. Latin for temple or worshipper at a temple. Marathe continues, “Are we not all of us fanatics? … Choose your temple of fanaticism with great care. What you wish to sing of as tragic love is an attachment not carefully chosen. Die for one person? That is craziness. Persons change, leave, die, become ill. They leave, lie, go mad, have sickness, betray you, die. Your nation outlives you. A cause outlives you.” Because I am not sure which characters to “root’ for (which is probably Wallace’s point) it is tricky deciding what exactly he feels about the topic, although I did stumble upon an article Wallace wrote for Rolling Stone magazine in 2000 where he chummied it up with John McCain for 7 days. The article is called The Weasel, Twelve Monkeys And The Shrub. It is pretty long (surprise) but the first 2-ish pages make the connection I’m getting at, which shed some light perhaps on what Wallace thinks is a good thing. After recounting McCain’s Vietnam story he says this,

“But, see, we do know how this man reacted. That he chose to spend four more years there, in a dark box, alone, tapping code on the walls to the others, rather than violate a Code. Maybe he was nuts. But the point is that with McCain it feels like we know, for a proven fact, that he's capable of devotion to something other, more, than his own self-interest.”

Marathe says, it enlarges the heart. Something bigger than the self. Steeply counters with a question, “What if sometimes there is no choice about what to love?” And Marathe states,

“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. In a case such as this, you become the slave who believes he is free. The most pathetic of bondage. Not tragic. No songs. You believe you would die twice for another but in truth would die only for your alone self, its sentiment.”

I haven't decided quite how I resolve this with the philosophies of Ayn Rand. She argues, in a sense, that devotion to self is the only virtuous way to live. Selfishness is the heroic act. In The Fountainhead, the protagonist Howard Roark is great because of his unfailing devotion to himself, his creativity, his ideals - at the expense of all else. Roark does have a love affair with Dominque, but it is secondary to the act of self devotion, or Rand's idea of true integrity. Roark tells Dominique that their love would destroy her until she was individually complete. Ayn Rand attributes the possibility to this kind of life to the institution of Capitalism.

"Now observe the results of a society built on the principle of individualism. This, our country. The noblest country in the history of men. The country of greatest achievement, greatest prosperity, greatest freedom. This country was not based on selfless service, sacrifice, renunciation or any precept of altruism. It was based on a man's right to the pursuit of happiness. His own happiness. Not anyone else's. A private, personal, selfish motive. Look at the results. Look into your own conscience."

Rand praises the fundamental principle upon which the country was built, but were not those men dedicated to a cause of vision greater than the self? Maybe our forefathers are part of those that Marathe speaks. Maybe this seeming paradox in fact finds Wallace and Rand on the same side? Perhaps the problem is that Marathe sees love for another human being as perpetually selfish and is unable to view the possibility that the love for one other can in fact not be a self-serving desire. All this is interestingly placed in the back story of Marathe acting as a double-or-triple agent for medical supplies for his ill wife. Ironic.

It seems funny how a topic keeps turning up in different places. I just watched Traitor with Don Cheadle (highly recommended). It addresses our allegiances. How are we motivated? What is our justification for our actions? In even greater complexity, how can the same motivation lead us to act is grossly opposite ways? It is also for the sake of our 'temples' man can be manipulated. Coercion by force or fear for a loved one. In Traitor, Islamic terrorism and jihad is evil men manipulating those of true devotion to Allah for their faith.

I briefly studied Italian history, emphasizing the Machiavellian influence. (Machiavelli is a genius of human nature.) From The Prince, Machiavelli discusses whether it is best to be loved or feared in ruling a country, or in any leadership position. He writes, “The answer is of course, that it would be best to be both loved and feared. But since the two rarely come together, anyone compelled to choose will find greater security in being feared than in being loved.” Man is driven by emotion to a certain point, but fear initiates the primal behavior of self-preservation, even at the risk of breaking the obligations of love. Now we may not all agree with Machiavelli; but this is the principle behind torture - fear. Many have survived. Wallace argues McCain to be one of them. The principle of terrorism is the same, create in a nation enough fear that you manipulate their actions.

Marathe also asks this question:
“Who teaches your U.S.A children how to choose their temple?”
I've had a few discussions recently about the effect of social values, and socially accepted behaviors and beliefs on children. It seems fairly accepted, especially in certain demographics that values are taught in the home. In all fairness though, social values of different generations are evident in all demographics. It is impossible for me to ignore that society teaches kids a heck of a lot more than we might like; therefore, who teaches your children? Public schools, TV, government? All of which are semi-frightening options currently. How is it that we instill goodness in our children; gratitude, patriotism, rightful pride and dignity? What do we teach them is worth loving, or in all fairness, what love is? What do we teach is worth dying for without thinking twice? Or even still, how do we discover that 'temple' for ourselves?

I may or may not be in love with Wallace

I apologize in advance for any typos. I am blaming it on the fact that I am currently living in an icebox, and no matter how high I turn the knob thingy on the thermostat, the temperature refuses to rise, even a little above freezing. I’m punching out only half-sensible sentences between the visible puffs of my breathing and intermediate gnaws on the frozen granola bar (which are stored in my cupboard not freezer.)

Out of principle I am refusing to wear gloves, no one should have to wear gloves in his/her own house. Come on, it’s the Great Indoors. (That goes for mittens as well, and seeing as how they would only further interfere with the typing.) But alas, midst the three layers of thermals and sweats my brain would like a word. If you’re curious my furnace debacle is not half as poetic as the Sufjan Stevens song,

Wearing three layers of coats and leg warmers
I see my own breath on the face of the door

(From The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades is out to get Us. Listen to it. It’s a favorite.)

So our topic: I may or may not be in love with Wallace…(perhaps I should not admit that I have a curious series of dead-man crushes on really cool dead-people I am sure I would have been madly infatuated with had I ever met them in the flesh.) Obviously I haven’t finished the book, however Wallace is making a good case for himself. Even though I am not a youtube junkie, I did look up some of his readings. I actually really miss attending book and poetry readings from undergrad. I particularly love the passage he reads about elite baton twirling.

One of my favorite passages of Infinite Jest is the dialogue between Hal and his little brother Mario. I love it when writers portray reality so well. Like when Jerry Spinelli can enter the head of a 17-year-old girl, or Wallace can depict the conversation between two brothers. I can imagine this exact exchange happening between my two older brothers. The whole chapter is awesome, but the last paragraphs are astounding.

Pg. 42

“How come she never got sad?
…
Don’t cry, Booboo. Remember that flag only halfway up the pole? Booboo, there are two ways to lower a flag to half-mast. Are you listening? Because no shit I really have to sleep here in a second. So listen – one way to lower the flag to half-mast is to just lower the flag. There’s another way though, you can also just raise the pole. You can raise the pole to like twice its original height. You get me? You understand what I mean Mario?

Hal?

She’s plenty sad, I bet.”

Whatever this book is, whatever it is that Wallace writes, it is substantial. It is interesting to see how people change after someone dies.

As for Mr. Wallace, I’m definitely impressed by this time, but I became convinced just 3 pages later, where Wallace closed in on my heart with the roaches. His writing in this chapter is flawless. I was enamored by this chaotic maze of inverted glass tumblers and nightmarish image of prehistoric tanks invading through the shower drain. Heebee jeebies is all I can say.

Pg. 45

“The yellow tile floor of the bathroom is sometimes a little obstacle course of glasses with huge roaches dying inside, stoically, just sitting there, the glasses gradually steaming up with roach-dioxide. The whole thing makes Orin sick. Now he figures the hotter the shower’s water, the less chance any small armored vehicle is going to feel like coming out of the drain while he is in there.”

For my undergrad research lab experience I basically worked in a mouse whorehouse in the top-secret 9th floor of the Widtsoe. Part of my job was “eliminating” the unneeded baby male mice. Elimination was a tactless euphemism for suffocating masses of squirmy mice pups in a CO2 chamber. I think that experience is the raw material for a poem down the road…if I ever abandon my practical life and take up writing from my mountain cabin. Do any of you ever wish you pursued writing more seriously? (I’m making the assumption that none of you are living off the killing you made from a bestseller penned under a pseudonym.) Writing as a career feels like signing up for premature death, depression, and alcoholism, yet – a really cool brain.

I also liked the chapter about the “professional conversationalist.” I am glad Erik commented on it. It was amusing to me because as a reader I see just how ridiculous the whole situation seems. A kid sent by his dad in a somewhat ambush style therapy intervention. The tactic the father uses is at least one of the precise reasons the relationship between father and son is not working. It’s ironic.

The emphasis on the psychological intricacies and idiosyncrasies of each character illustrates the complexity, beauty, and fragility of people. I saw a Rodin sculpture at a museum in Paris once. It was a small piece and I hadn’t seen it before nor have I seen it since, but it was this incredible mass bronze, rough and lacking detail. Thick. A crouching woman. The response I had and wrote down was, “Life is a desperate pursuit.” It may not be profound, but it was a striking concept and combination of words for me. It somehow again seems fitting in application to Infinite Jest.

Kate Gompert and her desperate explanation of depression. I want so badly for it to just go away. Somehow her trance-like recitation of how life with this “feeling” is, suddenly makes behaviors like cutting makes sense and ousting yourself seem like a rational idea. All a desperate attempt to make the chaos in both mind and body physically real and somehow organized. And this whole exchange with the doctor is fabulous and perhaps tragically realistic.

Even still, I find myself laughing out loud when reading…I can’t get over the medical attaché sequences. Semi-comatose in his recliner, too entrenched in this video to even get up and pee. It is hysterical. The robbery scenes Erik mentioned are too funny, although yes to the toothbrushes, no to the tragic suffocation by viscous mucus and duct tape. Have any of you read any Tom Robbins? I laugh at his writing the same way. Wildly random, and shrewdly amusing.

A Few thoughts

So I'm still chugging along pretty slow, but I wanted to make a brief observation/question: what's with the ebonically phoenetic portion? And does anybody else have a hard time reading that stuff?

But I have really hit the part where I'm really liking the book a lot. The robbery part with the Quebecian and the ADA was hilarious. Really clever I thouhgt. That is all.

A rebuttal....but in a non-confrontational sort of way

OK, I frankly am not all that worried about spoilers. It's a long book, and it doesn't seem to be "plot driven" unlike a Harry Potter or a Da Vinci Code, so I think spoilers won't be a big deal. My thought is that if you are posting something that you think might ruin something, just put a "spoiler warning" somewhere in the title or something. But whatever everybody wants to do is fine with me.

Secondly, let me briefly bring Kyra and Katie up to speed on the twenty odd years of friendship that Phil and I have behind us. Phil and I are very similar in a lot of ways, but very different in others, and I think it creates a nice dramatic tension. (Sidenote: I unequivocally consider Phil to be one my best and truest friends. Sidesidenote: I had a girlfriend once in college who was convinced that if Phil and I hadn't known each other for so long we never would have become friends. I always hated when she would say that.)

But as Eggars described in the introduction, I agree that there are two camps in literature: the ones who think that writing should be extremely accessible and those that thing it should be arduous and challenging. I guess I see where you're coming from when you called Eggars "cute," but I think I'm in the camp that believes that writing should be accessible, and that's how I feel like Eggars writes. In fact, I think I might even be a little of an extremist. In all of the books I had to read for my English major (which has been SUPER useful...ear tug) I felt like I got the most out of the ones that were written in my language, or better, my vernacular. I felt the same way on my mission: As good as I ever got at Porkandcheese, my communication skills never even came close to my native language. Which, incidentally, is why I think that missionaries that bring home "natives" to marry that don't share a common first language is not a good idea.

But, I recognize that I am on the far side of the camp, and it's refreshing to hear someone who has a different opinion, and I can certainly respect the sentiment. And, I sort of agree with Eggars that this book is somewhere in the middle, which is kind of nice. I'm also very excited for Phil to do some groundwork for us and find out about his hometown.

OK, so this isn't that far into the book, and it isn't a spoiler, but the part after the marijuana scene where he describes his encounter with the therapist ("conversationalist") I thought was great. It's interesting because I have essentially seen a therapist and been a therapist (in a way). Allow me to explain: I work with a pediatric psychiatrist once a week at children's hospital as a part of the "treatment team." So we go and meet with kids that have problems that are far beyond their age. When I saw a therapist to help me decide whether or not to go back to school, I loved it. I saw her as a benevolent third party to help me sort out my issues. When I'm on the "treatment team" though it is very different. Today for instance, I saw a fifteen year old kid who was living in a foster home, has ADHD, Bipolar, and diabetes. When he's on a bipolar swing, or when he's just feeling like a fifteen year old, he doesn't take his diabetes medicine, and he winds up in the hospital, like today. So we're called in to do a "psych consult" meaning we spend about an hour talking to the kid and his foster mom. Point being: this kid is sick. He's in the hospital. He's all teenage-y and angst-y and we march in with five strangers, wake him up from his nap, and ask him to tell us about his feelings. As you can imagine, he didn't respond that well. And so I thought that chapter captured the dichotomy pretty well. On the one hand, therapy can be this kind, semi-omnipotent, even paternalistic experience, but on the other hand it can be a little "big brother;" controlling and intimidating.

And that chapter, not to keep bringing up AHWOSG, reminded me of the part in Eggars where he's doing the interview for MTV's Real World, and suddenly the interviewer explains that he's not really in the interview, but that it's a platform for a monologue. I thought it was a pretty clever literary device, although I thought it worked a little better in AHWOSG.

SOOOO, as Katie pointed out, this sucker is real long, and I'm not too far, but hopefully I will have some more time this Christmas to do a little reading and post some real nuggets. In the mean time, I love you guys.

Regarding: Dilemma, First Impressions, and Eggers

Umm…topic #1: Dilemma-
My simple suggestion for the anti-scheduled-non-book-clubish-no-spoiler blogspot, is that we could potentially come up with a format for titling the posts. Something that would detour you from reading about something you had yet to read in the novel.

A logical suggestion would be something like “Regarding Chapter #X,” but seeing as I am still deciphering exactly how this book is organized, (and numbered chapters not being it) we could just break it down roughly to page numbers. If however page numbers is not enough, a clever “cute” Eggers style title can follow. This format just might work, being both informative and efficient for the quick-skimmer and the smart ass alike.

Take for instance the following:
Regarding xi – 3: Invitational Instructions and Erik’s love for Dave Eggers
Or my own potential post:
Up to page 42: I may or may not be in love with Wallace

Blogs about the more global/cosmic issues or might-be themes of the book can be non-specific-non-formatted titles resembling something more like discussion threads or questions. (I usually have more questions than constructive and/or cohesive thoughts.) That said: First Impressions. This could likewise be titled "Phillip busts Erik’s and Egger’s Chops" but you see the idea. Think it would work?

Phillip, I have a feeling you may be un-impressed, but I was forewarned - with a name like Katie and everything.

As far as Dave Eggers goes, I fall somewhere in between the spectrum of Erik and Phillip. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius was refreshing, and Eggers had me pegged in the intro of Infinite Jest, approaching 25, madly in love with Sufjan Stevens and guilty of endlessly carrying around Jack Kerouac in my purse. Eggers did fail to mention that I frequently smell of a cadaver lab and am currently eating eggs with an Oct 10 expiration date in December, but otherwise he hit the highlights.

Eggers says, "We have an obligation, to ourselves, chiefly, to see what a brain, and particularly a brain like our own - that is, using the same effluvium we, too, swim through - is capable of." I sat in the airport on the way back from Thanksgiving Break hunkered into Wallace when the man I sat next to asked if I was reading a phone book. I laughed. And after we chatted for who knows how long, he remarked that if the brakes fail on landing we could toss Wallace out to drag us to a stop. He might be right, this mass of pages is a bit daunting, but Eggers said it, "...any book, but particularly a book like this, a book that gives so much, that required such sacrifice and dedication. Who would do such a thing if not for want of connection and thus of love?" And perhaps in our case why we not only are determined to read it, but write about it?

Needless to say I am pretty excited about all this, and if not for the need to both shower and see what a brain like my own can cram into before my final tomorrow I would ramble about the previously referenced 42 pages. But for what it is worth, I’ve put my two-cents out there.