The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of
Here They Come and
Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Bat Segundo interview with Murphy)
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in
Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of
Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by
The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents
all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
Bat Segundo interview with McClear)
Your paragraph is awful–bland, facile. DFW’s is artful.
Suppose you prefer a text message to a letter.
Excellent. Your next assignment is to pare down his lobster essay for publication in Readers Digest.
Sorry, I am missing the point. You revised a long well written paragraph into a shorter boring one?
Why do you love to hate on DFW?
SFW
Color me unsure of what the point of this exercise was as well. This loses all feeling of atmosphere, of the emotion attached to the description. I understand DFW isn’t for everyone, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t for anyone.
I’ll remain silent about the purpose of this experiment, except to say this: Who says I hate DFW?
For
Here is the first paragraph of David Foster Wallace’s “Good People” rewritten:
substitute
I re-wrote the opening of David Foster Wallace’s “Good People”:
and for
DFW’s paragraph is 502 words. My revised paragraph is 107 words.
swap in
His was 502 words; mine, 107.
…
Fun!
I’m curious — did you first read the story online or in print? The layout of the print version is (to my mind) intended to be aesthetically pleasing — three long paragraphs on page one, almost like tapestries. However, that format also points out what could be taken as the story’s major flaws.
awesome work Ed. I always think of “it’s not writing it’s typing” when I read DFW? But try doing it for the first graph of *A Farewell to Arms*
Re: Who says I hate DFW?
I wouldn’t say you hate him but you do seem to bash him from time to time. Perhaps the following seems familiar:
While it breaks my heart to say it, I think Wallace is washed up. He could very well prove me wrong. But if he has nothing playful or interesting to contribute to the world of letters, I’d much prefer it if he threw in the towel and coasted on his past achievements, rather than writing work that sometimes reads and feels as dated and inconsequential as a 1997 episode of Seinfeld.
Also you once made this (in my opinion) ridiculous claim comparing DFW to MZD:
Well, I am here to tell you that I have discovered a man who can write David Foster Wallace under the table, if indeed a comparative summation between writing and drinking can be consummated.
I liked House of Leaves but it’s cleverness does not match up against the brilliance of Infinite Jest (obviously, again, my opinion).
Whether your feelings for Mr. Wallace fall foul, fair or just plain indifferent, I cannot comment upon. But I will say that his 502 words of prose—while convincing and even beautiful, themselves—paint a “picture” that is still and lifeless. ["...more like a picture than a man."] This was probably his intent. Each reader will make of it what they will.
Your 107 words succinctly convey the essence of the scene—with one all important distinction: While the words you chose may not fit together nearly so beautifully (imho), you describe something that may convincingly be thought of as “alive.” ["...more like a man than a picture."] I’d surmise this has something to do with “the purpose of this experiment.”
The success of one approach or the other all comes down to what an individual reader values more highly: beautifully described death (inanimateness), or coarsely described life.
Of course, certain combinations of the two yield the best results.