A Supposedly Infinite Hope
Note: I began writing ASIH in 1998, I think, and finished it several times since then. After fiddling with it again today, in 2016, I think I'm ready to let it go. It's flawed, but it reflects that person I was in 1998, a person I'm not too sure I like. Or rather, I like her, but I feel distant from her, and sorry she had to be the way she was, even though it led to this essay that I still hold dear to my heart.
12-01
DEAR C2,
I HAVE BOTH YOUR LETTERS IN HAND AND WANT TO WRITE TO THANK YOU FOR THEM. IT IS PRETTY MUCH EVERY FICTION WRITER’S FONDEST DREAM (WELL, AT LEAST ALL THE ONES I KNOW OF) TO INCITE FEELINGS OF ‘CONNECTION’ IN READERS WHO DON’T HAPPEN TO SHARE ANY OF THEIR PARTICULAR PREOCCUPATIONS OR EXPERIENCES. YOUR LETTERS ARE ABOUT AS GOOD AN ARTICULATION OF ‘CONNECTION’ AS I’VE SEEN, AND I’M PROFOUNDLY GRATEFUL¼NOT LEAST THAT YOU’D EVEN TAKE TROUBLE TO WRITE. SO THANKS.
DAVID [Foster] WALLACE
There’s a fine line between fishing and standing on the bank looking stupid, a librarian friend once told me, and the same goes for the line between fan and stalker. Does this letter mark a hopeful, if a little silly, time in my life, or does it mark a deeper derangement, a spin into the vortex of fantasy? The letter thrills and embarrasses me. I still feel compelled to keep it private, to bury it under a willow tree and then sit on the grave until birds and spiders nest in my hair and my fingernails curl and twist.
It all started in the spring of 2001 when a guy I’ll call “JM,” my Holy Grail since I first saw him at age 15, lent me David Foster Wallace’s (DFW’s) novel, Infinite Jest. I had just moved from home into my first apartment, a few months after graduating with a Master’s in English. My new place was rural slum, five minutes away from my parents’ countryside home. The floor sloped so much that when I sat on it to do yoga, I had to prop up one hip with a small block of wood or folded piece of paper.[1] Yet my joy at living on my own, my happy willingness to face obstacles alone, makes reading my journal from that time intoxicating.[2] I didn’t have friends in the area, but living alone gave me permission to be lonely. Living with my parents, the loneliness had been complicated by guilt and anger.
I worked as a temp in the community involvement division of a local bank; most days, I sat in a padded cubicle with about two hours of work to fill my time. My boss was too disorganized to figure out how I could help her be more organized. By Christmas, she trusted me enough to let me clean out her files. I found a stack of old head shots printed in glossy black-and-white rows–former bank executives in a variety of forced smiles and ghastly expressions. I cut out some of the goofiest shots, punched holes in them, looped green and red ribbons through the holes, and sent them to my friends as Christmas ornaments. I decided to send a card and ornament to JM.
I was 26 and hadn’t seen or heard from JM in four years, but I’d dreamed of him often (mostly bad dreams, with an occasional, misleading one, in which he’d look at me and smile and I’d wake up giddy), and I knew he lived only two minutes down the road. My mom sometimes talked to his mom, so I knew he’d had a girlfriend for awhile but wasn’t thrilled about the relationship. My mom said that his mom said that when he told his dad about this girl, he (JM) said, “I guess Rachel [R] and I are together now.” I decided that “I guess” equaled big-time reluctance.
It had been a couple of years since that news, and my mom hadn’t heard any mention of R since. So, I sent the card and spent the next few days in high agitation.[3] Three days after I sent the card, a big green envelope came in the mail, with a long note from JM and his email address inside. I felt like I was reading a novel starring me; heroine-me unaware of love around the corner, but reader-me knowing it’s only a matter of time. We started emailing. We emailed from work two to three times a day, several days a week. He seemed excited, attentive, flirtatious. I was stunned, ecstatic, and very afraid. Could we possibly keep up this email intensity? I spent my week days crafting letters that certainly seemed to be rhetorically effective. I began to feel like I could seduce through language–make him (and quite possibly all men) love me through my writing. Not love letters. Just good, engaging writing. I kept a careful tab on my emails, making sure never to send more than he did and to let him initiate most of it. Long, empty hours at work became an exercise in self-control; waiting for JM to write and trying to keep myself from writing back too soon.[4] When I didn’t write, I was proud of myself. Proud and sad, like the mother of a martyred virgin. Still, the emails continued.[5] I began to wait for the email that would say, “I’d like to see you. Let’s do something.” As the Fridays came and went without him suggesting a weekend plan, I began to hate weekends. I never considered initiating anything, so scared I was about pressuring him. He continued to flirt and say nice things. When he found out I’d turned down a job in Philly, he wrote, “I knew I was not overly enthusiastic about your possible move to Philly.”[6]
One week we hit on the subject of yoga. He found out I had a yoga book. I told him he could borrow it. And then...finally. He said he “might drop by” sometime on Friday night to get it, on his way out of town. And he’d bring a book he wanted me to read. I said I’d be there.
“Offer him something to drink,” Mom advised. “Maybe two choices, like tea and Coke.”
Dad said, “Have some music playing to keep the mood relaxed.”
“Ooh, good idea,” Mom agreed.
I bought a jug of Arizona green tea and a six-pack of Coke, although I never drink either.[7] Back at home, I got ready. I double-checked my To Do list.[8] I brushed my hair, put on a nice, non-threatening sweater and jeans–I put on sneakers, too, although I don’t normally wear shoes in the house. I rejected the harsh overhead light in favor of two small lamps and played an Eric Clapton blues tape dubbed from my brother-in-law’s CD because it seemed like something JM would like. I waited. I had to keep pushing myself back off the edge of the chair. I had to remember to breathe. The dim lights started to seem way too ulterior and suggestive. The music sounded way too sexy. My stomach felt like string cheese. I hadn’t seen him in four years. It was too dark.
He knocked loudly. I tried to be calm, like The Sound of Music nun who says, “Slowly, my children, slowly,” when the Nazis rattle for her to open the gate. But after two slow steps, I panicked that he might leave and rushed to the door.
When I look back on that night, I think that, as casual as I tried to act, he sensed that this, to me, was An Event. He really had no way of knowing if I normally spent my evenings in dim light, wearing jeans and sneakers, listening to Clapton. But I felt so foreign to myself that he must have sensed it. He talked a lot, and loudly; I regressed into a preternatural silence. When I offered him a drink, he took tea. He looked heavier and taller than I remembered. His black jacket, with its ugly elastic cloth wrists and waistband, made his shoulders slope and his head look big. I felt myself changing from someone who cares about looks to someone who welcomes imperfection. I offered him the only padded chair. We sat across from each other, he leaning back, appearing relaxed, me on the edge, hyperbolically calm. He talked more. When he stopped, I’d ask a question, and he’d start again. I talked, finally, a little about my summer trip out west. I remember waving my hands and saying about Utah, “It was so beautiful–I never realized there were so many different shades of brown.” In one of the lulls, the Clapton tape clicked off loudly. We both looked at it. He finished his tea. We found a good way to let him leave. He handed me a huge blue book with clouds on the front and big orange and black letters–Infinite Jest. He raved about it. Then he raved about the movie Dogma. He said I’d have to come over and watch it sometime soon. Then he left. Our emails renewed, and I was so relieved to return to that old comfortable self relating to him through words. I waited three weeks for him to bring up Dogma again. Finally I rented it myself.
* * *
Writing to someone is deceptive. JM’s bodily presence was very different from his emails. His emails lingered; in person, he rushed. My emails rambled wildly; in person, I grew, as previously mentioned, catatonically quiet. I like to think we just needed practice; the short, rare meetings couldn’t break through the stiffness. I’ve posited theory after theory to explain our inability to connect. JM is surrounded by people. He’s moved about twice in his entire life, has had one successful, fulfilling job since college, and lives near a group of friends from high school who get together at least once a week. He’s happy. Un-needy. I’ve moved from place to place, at first because I lived with my moving parents, and then because I inherited their restlessness. So, when someone like me, with family but no friends, discontent, restless, meets someone like JM—friendly, seemingly available—that person might, like me, spiral obsessively into the relationship. JM moves in straight, clear, predictable lines. In movies and books, the line vs. spiral relationship often ends with the spiraller, usually a woman, clinging obsessively until she decides, finally, to get therapy and/or gleefully slam her car into other parked cars. These spiralley feelings were (and still are, in some ways) my Existential Cowlick; I try to locate and spit on them, but sometimes the wispy ends break through, the longing pops up, and I might write twice instead of waiting for someone to write back.
* * *
I started IJ in the midst of this emotional turmoil after having avoided it for several weeks. Its size—1079 pages, 94 of which are microscopic end notes—stymied me, and I feared I wouldn’t like it. The first page made me angry. Way too smart. I-the-Author-thumb-my-nose-at-you-the-Reader. But for the sake of JM and myself, I kept reading. Soon enough, the humor seduced me—I softened, laughed out loud. When I periodically flipped to the back cover to muse at the small picture of DFW, my delight grew to obsession. A young man, looking down as if at a page of his own writing, with a crooked grin, bandanna, straight nose, and stubbly jaw. Comfortable, sexy, smart. I read rabidly, for him, then, as much as for JM. I felt exposed by the book’s brutal but deft psychology–the mother who makes up for not loving her children by loving them too much, the woman with the beautiful figure who wears a veil to cover her face and goes by “Madame Psychosis” on her late-night radio show, the large-headed, lumbering AA director Don Gately, lost in his inferiority, who accidentally killed an attaché in his criminal past. The violence–head in a microwave. The weirdness–yogi who lives on top of the locker room towel dispenser and licks the boys’ sweat. The plot–Canada/U.S. war, and the terrorists who kill with a video cartridge. Year of Glad, Year of the Trial-Sized Dove Bar. Febrile, apocopes, bolections, anfractuous, semaphore.
At the end of the book, I hated DFW again. Nothing worked out. Madame Psychosis and Don Gately did not live happily ever after. Now, I knew the whole time that this was not a happy-ending kind of book, and I usually shut down emotionally when I read such books so the ending doesn’t annihilate me. But in this case, I was Madame Psychosis, and a DFW/JM combination was Gately, especially since all three have large heads. So when everything collapsed at the end, I collapsed. I cried bitterly. I tore my hair. I decided to write to DFW.
* * *
Parts of the Letter [9]
Dear DFW, [...] I was introduced to you about four months ago. I read IJ first; it was a loaner. If I were to loan your books, I’d break the poor person in with Brief Interviews[10], but I think the loaner was either testing me or trying to keep from having to see me for a really long time. [I continue with my reactions to the book, focusing on the things I liked]. More praise later...let me diverge now for a brief summary of relevant personal info. to hopefully make you aware of the variety of readers you’ve influenced (i.e., I like to write about myself). [The next few paragraphs relate my experience with some of his major themes: religion, substance-abuse, depression, and sex.[11] This next excerpt is from the closing paragraph.] Critics quoted on the covers call you “hugely funny,” with a “devilish wit,” “an intelligence and a swagger,” etc. It’s all true, but it makes me picture them sitting upright in a posh leather chair, wearing tailored pants—legs crossed—and reading with a detached smirk. You ARE funny; sometimes I laugh out loud. [...] But mostly I read in fascinated shame and horror and self-consciousness; even after I’ve stopped and recovered somewhat, I am in a funk. [...] I can be driving down the road, and just thinking of the physical book or your name and feel a sudden weight...But I will keep reading, which may be a sign of sickness, but is probably a sign that your work is compelling and powerful in a way that makes me hope that someday I’ll recover and realize that you’re not that great after all–it’s uncomfortable to be so consumed.
* * *
After a couple of months with no response, I started to feel like I’d always felt when JM didn’t write back: that something must be wrong with me. And that something was wrong with me for even wanting a response.[12] About six months later, after I’d read most of his books and revised my reaction to IJ, I wrote to him again, giving more praise, asking more questions, and trying to explain why his novels engaged me so much more than others of their type.
After posting the letter, my imagination spat out scenarios like arcade tickets. What if he sends a private detective to spy on me, and the detective is so impressed that he tells DFW, who then comes to see for himself, and then we meet and are friends, and he comes over to watch movies, and I don’t even care if he smokes in the house? What if he sits on my couch, and I sit in the chair, and then he reaches back and pulls me over with him? We wouldn’t have to have a traditional wedding.
The fantasies combined with embarrassment at my decline into pathetic fandom and fear that DFW would see my second letter and label me a stalker.[13]
In December of 2001, about a month after my second letter, I opened my mailbox to find a large white card addressed with a male hand, in uncentered, downward-slanting, black-markered letters. I knew before I looked at the return address and saw the almost illegible “Wallace” scrawled in the top left corner. I Knew. The universe jerked into alignment, my cells were at attention, electrons clamored just beneath my skin. I managed to fit the key into the lock and rush inside my apartment. I sat on the couch, awestruck, and tore open the envelope. Inside was a cheap Christmas card, the variety-pack kind, with two ugly puppies and “Season’s Greetings” on the front. On the inside, he’d used the same black marker to print above and below the “May Your Holidays Be Merry and Bright.” I could have seen my heart beat if I’d looked. My cheeks were burning. The black block letters all ran together, so I could barely read it. “Dear C2” (Dear C2? C2?? What is that if not love?) “I have both your letters in hand and want to write to thank you for them¼”
* * *
The card cheered me up considerably at first. But after a few days it began to seem surreal and depressing. Did he say “with both your letters in hand” to subtly suggest that I’d gone too far? Was the suggestion that I’d “taken the trouble” to write a kind way of giving me back my dignity, as if I were condescending to him instead of vice-versa? The card sat propped on a shelf with my other Christmas cards, the two little dogs frozen mid-yap. Is he making fun of me with the dogs, or inviting me to join in a private joke about the inanity of Christmas cards? He just wrote a paragraph. I wrote him two letters, two pages each, loaded with things he could have responded to. “Dear C2.” To me, that says, “Cindy, I have a special feeling for you–you are somewhat dear to me, which is why I made up a special, endearing nickname just for you.” My brain played the predator. Why did you think you’d be satisfied if he wrote back? What if he wrote because you seemed unstable and, being a nice guy, he feared for your life?
Clearly, the only way to redeem myself, to prove my sanity, was to write once again. A fun, normal Christmas card would be just the thing, and perhaps even a new beginning for our relationship. I picked an equally dorky card from my stockpile of free National Wildlife Federation cards they’d sent in hopes of a donation. It had two little birds on the front. I wrote a small paragraph, very casual and sophisticated, trying to engage him intellectually by recommending Julian Barnes’ Flaubert’s Parrot, since it related to his essay about literary theory in ASFTINDA.[14] It was a good note. But then I ruined it by putting in one of my homemade, bank-employee Christmas ornaments. Very funny if you’re sending it to a friend who knows you. Very eyebrow-raising if you’re sending it to a stranger who probably already suspects your psychological health. If I hadn’t put it in, would he have written back?
Clearly, I’d made an ass of myself. I showed my family the card he’d sent, but no one else—especially not JM. Keeping it secret a) hid my shame, b) let me go on pretending it meant more than the written words, and c) let me hope that despite his achievements, he’d still be a person that could enjoy getting to know another person and maybe even find it funny when that person sends him a silly Christmas ornament as a joke.
* * *
I never heard from DFW again, although JM and I continued a slower-paced correspondence over the next year. Like DFW, JM tends to have strong right-brained proclivities for math and science, he writes stories, he plays tennis. I think he even read the dictionary as a kid. So I had these two men. One who wouldn’t be known, and one who, realistically speaking, couldn’t be known. Once again, I posited theories to explain my obsession with both. But it’s simple, really. Loneliness, the need for an audience, the suppressed desire to write. I wrote poetry in my master’s program, but when I graduated, I stopped. Writing is a solitary act, and I was already lonely. Polishing a piece for my own eyes seemed a burden, a reminder of my aloneness, rather than a possible delight. When I reconnected with JM, I suddenly had an audience. I could write for someone. And because I believed that my writing self was my true self, I mistook email for relationship, DFW books for DFW, art for reality. The failure of both relationships made me feel I’d failed as a writer; as if I’d only stumbled on the right alchemy of words, both men would have been unable to resist.
Now, in my third year of an MFA program, my gigantic leap for self-preservation, I’ve replaced writing to JM with writing poetry and creative non-fiction.[15] Now, I have an audience of classmates, teachers, and friends. I’ve generously shared DFW selections with my creative writing students. Although I still struggle with loneliness, I finally feel capable of being a solitary person.[16]
Sort of. I found out last week that DFW may come here to Penn State to give a reading next year, and the imagination went chia-pet, and the Cowlick sprang straight up.
I wait at the airport, holding a sign that says “DFW.” I see him coming down the corridor, carry-on in hand. My nerves are spilling out everywhere, like the woman in IJ who, because of her unfortunately gelatinous head, must wear a helmet to keep it all in place. He sees the sign. He’s tall, and more raggedy than his picture. I smile. Calmly.
Hi. DFW? I’m Cindy. We shake hands. Nice to meet you.
He seems disoriented. Is there a restroom nearby?
Yeah...over there. I’ll just wait out here.
He comes out a few minutes later, looking more relaxed. I smile. He smiles back.
I’m sorry, what’d you say your name was?
Cindy. (I pause). Clem. (Pause again). C-squared. (I laugh, embarrassed).
He looks at me, then starts to smile. No way. Really.
I blush. Yes. You know, I’m so embarrassed...I can’t believe I–
He smiles. Well.
So you’re not too worried about your safety, having to ride home with your stalker?
Not at all.
Do you have other bags?
We walk over to baggage claim, watch the merry-go-round spit out bloated suitcases. We don’t quite know what to say. I am trying to breathe deeply without him noticing.
So, how was your flight?
Not bad. Here’s mine. He grabs his suitcase.
I think we have to go out this way.
We don’t say much, but we have An Understanding.
Our walk to the car is awkward. He takes long strides, head and shoulders bent toward the ground. His hair is messy, pulled back under the bandanna. He’s wearing glasses, unlike his author photographs. I wonder if he thinks I’m pretty.
We shove aside my beat up box of cat litter and extra quarts of oil in order to fit his luggage in the trunk. It’s a hard box to shove, sitting on top of an old hula hoop I keep meaning to throw out. He helps me shove it. It’s the closest we’ve been, our arms bumping. My car has a dent in the front left corner, and the hood paint is patchy, thanks to a few slips of the shovel when I tried to dig it out of a six-foot drift last winter. I like to think of DFW knowing that I dig cars out of drifts–and imagining how stunningly pretty I am while doing it.
It takes almost all my concentration to drive like an adult. But I couldn’t function if I had to focus solely on DFW, so I drive slowly, much more carefully than usual, and let him sit and absorb the wonder of our meeting, our implicit, immediate connection. He’s a bit overweight, but I think I can handle it.[17]
Footnotes:
[1] Not really.
[2] “Well! Shower hose installed! Nothing to hold it up, though. Felt like a primitive, squatting in the tub (get a small stool to sit on!) – but soft water will be better for my skin...” Or this: “My own kitchen! My own utensils! Long sleek stainless steel spoons, spatula, whisk–beautiful stainless steel colander, strainer, measuring cups and spoons– oh so pretty and elegant and cold.”
[3] High agitation, for me, involves a rushing punctuated by sudden dead moments of staring into space. My ears hum. I could probably lift a dryer. I can’t sleep. I can’t digest. I get a lot done. I try to sleep but toss and turn, dream with my eyes half-open. I dream I am standing in front of my closet, and he joins me there and puts his arm around me, and I turn to kiss him, and his face shifts into something repulsive, and his kiss fills my mouth with putty.
[4] Journal excerpt, 10-00
Convincing Arguments For Writing:
Like we learn in the Bible, it never hurts to be generous. Be generous with your friendship!
He may be expecting me to write, thinking, mistakenly, that it’s my turn.
We have not had an exchange since last Monday, and I need to remind him of myself, since who knows who he might have met over the weekend.
I have things to tell him, and it’s more natural to tell him about the weekend Monday instead of Tuesday.
I may be very busy tomorrow.
Convincing Arguments Against Writing:
If I wait until tomorrow, tomorrow will be a happy day.
He won’t think I’m as desperate as if I write today.
He may even feel sad that I didn’t write and wonder why he’s feeling that way. These kinds of ruminations could have positive outcomes.
I don’t want to be a burden.
I may be very busy today.
[5] Journal excerpts, 10-12 /2000
· I wrote to him and I’m embarrassed that I did, especially since he didn’t write back, and therefore I came home and ate too many dates.
· He wrote to me today!! Before I wrote to him!! He liked my prayer satire “immensely” although it makes him “a little worried about me ;)” God, if you’ve ever heard a prayer, hear my soul’s plea now.
· I’ve been gripped by the fear that I am the fling in JM’s life that will make him realize he loves R.
·
[6] And why is that, nuthead??? WHY IS THAT???
[7] No alcohol, you ask? It never occurred to me, with my conservative, church-going, small-town background. I’m sure it wouldn’t have occurred to JM, either. Although if it had, and we’d drunk it, I might not have had to write this story. We might be married, living in Texas, eating pretzels made from machines for which he wrote the manuals.
[8] To Do Before JM Comes:
take stool out of tub
spray this old-dog carpet with Febreze
make sure laundry basket is halfway moral
empty trash
make sure teddy bear isn’t in a masturbating position
put teddy away – how old are you, anyway??
[9] I’ve had to try very hard not to edit this excerpt. I’m ashamed that I didn’t read it more carefully before I sent it.
[10] Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, which I’d also read by the time I sent this letter.
[11] The sex section is only one sentence: “Sex: Learned some things from Brief Interviews but still don’t know what a Dildo is.” Ok. That’s humiliating to admit, but my lack of dildo-education, like the no-alcohol thing, results from my strictly contained background. Now, getting the Oxygen channel, I know far too much about sex and am embarrassed to have exposed my naiveté.
[12] I still have this problem, and I don’t know how to stop wanting except to find an island, live there alone, and spear fish and crack coconuts.
[13] The Stalker Debate, 2001: Am I or Aren’t I?
1. I don’t feel that different from other people. I look well-adjusted and feel well-adjusted at least 60% of the time. Isn’t it natural to be friendly–to try to connect with someone in reality who I feel connected to through reading?
2. It’s probably a bad sign that I don’t want anyone--except those I love--to read his books. It’s probably also a bad sign that I stopped wanting to read his books. Is that why stalkers kill the objects of their obsession—to get them out of their heads?
3. Another bad sign is that I’ve started to plan where he’ll stay when he comes to visit. “Well, there are three options,” I’ll say. “My parents and my sister and brother-in-law both live nearby. You’d probably be most comfortable at my sister’s. They have a huge house, my brother-in-law’s about your age, and I’d be within short walking distance.”
4. What’s the point in not pursuing something until you slam into a wall? Otherwise, how would you know whether the wall exists?
5. Sometimes when I see my blue-jeaned leg stretched out across the couch, knee cocked at a certain alluring angle, I wish DFW could see it too.
6. One of his books is dedicated to L—. Who the hell is L? A woman, no doubt. No doubt he loves her. L for love.
7. If I were a true stalker, I’d have cut his picture from the back of the book and put it in the little frame Cathie from Bible study gave me.
8. I just want someone to TALK to me.
[14] A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again
[15] That sounds too quick and easy. JM and I are a long story, full of starts and stops, of rare awkward meetings. I’ve stopped writing several times only to feel guilty (Who am I to be giving up a friendship? Why does this have to be a big deal?) and write again. When I don’t write, I feel sane, free. But then the deceptively good dreams start, and he becomes, in my head, a fantasy of himself, and I think that maybe we have a chance after all, if I could just be different, more normal. I decided not to respond to his last email of four months ago, and I think it’s for real this time. I’m worn out. Frustration and desire have staled, at long last. Is it over? I hope so. But he might write next week, having no concept of lapsing time or of How to Read Important Relationship Signals. I hope I can stay resolved. I need a hotline. 1-800-GET-REAL.
[16] Pretty much, anyway. Ok, well not really, but more so than before. Kind of.
[17] If DFW really came to town, would I rush to see him? No. If DFW came to town, would we live happily ever after? No. If DFW came to town, I’d be too embarrassed to introduce myself. Even if I could overcome the shame, I wouldn’t have the courage to face the sadness of meeting him and then seeing him leave.
A character in William Faulkner’s Go Down Moses says, “But women hope for so much. They never live too long to still believe that anything within the scope of their passionate wanting is likewise within the range of their passionate hope.” But I say that hope is the evil corporation of the imagination. And when hope is re-introduced, it strips away all the mental dexterity and emotional complexity so carefully stockpiled and sets up a factory that churns out the same tired dream again and again and again and again and the careful stockpiles rot and the only thought is Now and the only emotion is Need.
I.e., if DFW can’t make it, and if JM never writes again, I’ll probably be better off.
Postscript:
When I heard of David Foster Wallace’s suicide in 2008, about 10 years after I started this essay, I hadn’t read his work for awhile. Since my stalker-years, I’d put him aside and lost interest in reading his new books. When I heard of his death, it felt like an old wound opening. I cried for myself, cried for him, cried for the loss of a genius, and then opened Infinite Jest randomly to the section where he holds forth on depression in his usual devastatingly profound way. I cried for his depression. I read The New York Times obituary, read that he’d married an artist just several years before. I read David Lipsky’s Although of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself, the account of his road trip with DFW; I watched, for the first time, youtube clips of DFW reading and lecturing and interviewing. Now that he had died, I could let myself see him as he was: a large, hirsute, soft-spoken man, odd and probably lonely as only geniuses can be. I can see that he would have been a good teacher, gifted in giving students credit for more intelligence than they demonstrate. I bought and read The Pale King, and reading it didn’t feel painful (not even the boring parts – I read them with a sort of motherly benevolence); it felt like a connection again, but this time to the writing and to a brain at work, not to the bandanna-ed image. I admired him anew, and then laid him to rest.
12-01
DEAR C2,
I HAVE BOTH YOUR LETTERS IN HAND AND WANT TO WRITE TO THANK YOU FOR THEM. IT IS PRETTY MUCH EVERY FICTION WRITER’S FONDEST DREAM (WELL, AT LEAST ALL THE ONES I KNOW OF) TO INCITE FEELINGS OF ‘CONNECTION’ IN READERS WHO DON’T HAPPEN TO SHARE ANY OF THEIR PARTICULAR PREOCCUPATIONS OR EXPERIENCES. YOUR LETTERS ARE ABOUT AS GOOD AN ARTICULATION OF ‘CONNECTION’ AS I’VE SEEN, AND I’M PROFOUNDLY GRATEFUL¼NOT LEAST THAT YOU’D EVEN TAKE TROUBLE TO WRITE. SO THANKS.
DAVID [Foster] WALLACE
There’s a fine line between fishing and standing on the bank looking stupid, a librarian friend once told me, and the same goes for the line between fan and stalker. Does this letter mark a hopeful, if a little silly, time in my life, or does it mark a deeper derangement, a spin into the vortex of fantasy? The letter thrills and embarrasses me. I still feel compelled to keep it private, to bury it under a willow tree and then sit on the grave until birds and spiders nest in my hair and my fingernails curl and twist.
It all started in the spring of 2001 when a guy I’ll call “JM,” my Holy Grail since I first saw him at age 15, lent me David Foster Wallace’s (DFW’s) novel, Infinite Jest. I had just moved from home into my first apartment, a few months after graduating with a Master’s in English. My new place was rural slum, five minutes away from my parents’ countryside home. The floor sloped so much that when I sat on it to do yoga, I had to prop up one hip with a small block of wood or folded piece of paper.[1] Yet my joy at living on my own, my happy willingness to face obstacles alone, makes reading my journal from that time intoxicating.[2] I didn’t have friends in the area, but living alone gave me permission to be lonely. Living with my parents, the loneliness had been complicated by guilt and anger.
I worked as a temp in the community involvement division of a local bank; most days, I sat in a padded cubicle with about two hours of work to fill my time. My boss was too disorganized to figure out how I could help her be more organized. By Christmas, she trusted me enough to let me clean out her files. I found a stack of old head shots printed in glossy black-and-white rows–former bank executives in a variety of forced smiles and ghastly expressions. I cut out some of the goofiest shots, punched holes in them, looped green and red ribbons through the holes, and sent them to my friends as Christmas ornaments. I decided to send a card and ornament to JM.
I was 26 and hadn’t seen or heard from JM in four years, but I’d dreamed of him often (mostly bad dreams, with an occasional, misleading one, in which he’d look at me and smile and I’d wake up giddy), and I knew he lived only two minutes down the road. My mom sometimes talked to his mom, so I knew he’d had a girlfriend for awhile but wasn’t thrilled about the relationship. My mom said that his mom said that when he told his dad about this girl, he (JM) said, “I guess Rachel [R] and I are together now.” I decided that “I guess” equaled big-time reluctance.
It had been a couple of years since that news, and my mom hadn’t heard any mention of R since. So, I sent the card and spent the next few days in high agitation.[3] Three days after I sent the card, a big green envelope came in the mail, with a long note from JM and his email address inside. I felt like I was reading a novel starring me; heroine-me unaware of love around the corner, but reader-me knowing it’s only a matter of time. We started emailing. We emailed from work two to three times a day, several days a week. He seemed excited, attentive, flirtatious. I was stunned, ecstatic, and very afraid. Could we possibly keep up this email intensity? I spent my week days crafting letters that certainly seemed to be rhetorically effective. I began to feel like I could seduce through language–make him (and quite possibly all men) love me through my writing. Not love letters. Just good, engaging writing. I kept a careful tab on my emails, making sure never to send more than he did and to let him initiate most of it. Long, empty hours at work became an exercise in self-control; waiting for JM to write and trying to keep myself from writing back too soon.[4] When I didn’t write, I was proud of myself. Proud and sad, like the mother of a martyred virgin. Still, the emails continued.[5] I began to wait for the email that would say, “I’d like to see you. Let’s do something.” As the Fridays came and went without him suggesting a weekend plan, I began to hate weekends. I never considered initiating anything, so scared I was about pressuring him. He continued to flirt and say nice things. When he found out I’d turned down a job in Philly, he wrote, “I knew I was not overly enthusiastic about your possible move to Philly.”[6]
One week we hit on the subject of yoga. He found out I had a yoga book. I told him he could borrow it. And then...finally. He said he “might drop by” sometime on Friday night to get it, on his way out of town. And he’d bring a book he wanted me to read. I said I’d be there.
“Offer him something to drink,” Mom advised. “Maybe two choices, like tea and Coke.”
Dad said, “Have some music playing to keep the mood relaxed.”
“Ooh, good idea,” Mom agreed.
I bought a jug of Arizona green tea and a six-pack of Coke, although I never drink either.[7] Back at home, I got ready. I double-checked my To Do list.[8] I brushed my hair, put on a nice, non-threatening sweater and jeans–I put on sneakers, too, although I don’t normally wear shoes in the house. I rejected the harsh overhead light in favor of two small lamps and played an Eric Clapton blues tape dubbed from my brother-in-law’s CD because it seemed like something JM would like. I waited. I had to keep pushing myself back off the edge of the chair. I had to remember to breathe. The dim lights started to seem way too ulterior and suggestive. The music sounded way too sexy. My stomach felt like string cheese. I hadn’t seen him in four years. It was too dark.
He knocked loudly. I tried to be calm, like The Sound of Music nun who says, “Slowly, my children, slowly,” when the Nazis rattle for her to open the gate. But after two slow steps, I panicked that he might leave and rushed to the door.
When I look back on that night, I think that, as casual as I tried to act, he sensed that this, to me, was An Event. He really had no way of knowing if I normally spent my evenings in dim light, wearing jeans and sneakers, listening to Clapton. But I felt so foreign to myself that he must have sensed it. He talked a lot, and loudly; I regressed into a preternatural silence. When I offered him a drink, he took tea. He looked heavier and taller than I remembered. His black jacket, with its ugly elastic cloth wrists and waistband, made his shoulders slope and his head look big. I felt myself changing from someone who cares about looks to someone who welcomes imperfection. I offered him the only padded chair. We sat across from each other, he leaning back, appearing relaxed, me on the edge, hyperbolically calm. He talked more. When he stopped, I’d ask a question, and he’d start again. I talked, finally, a little about my summer trip out west. I remember waving my hands and saying about Utah, “It was so beautiful–I never realized there were so many different shades of brown.” In one of the lulls, the Clapton tape clicked off loudly. We both looked at it. He finished his tea. We found a good way to let him leave. He handed me a huge blue book with clouds on the front and big orange and black letters–Infinite Jest. He raved about it. Then he raved about the movie Dogma. He said I’d have to come over and watch it sometime soon. Then he left. Our emails renewed, and I was so relieved to return to that old comfortable self relating to him through words. I waited three weeks for him to bring up Dogma again. Finally I rented it myself.
* * *
Writing to someone is deceptive. JM’s bodily presence was very different from his emails. His emails lingered; in person, he rushed. My emails rambled wildly; in person, I grew, as previously mentioned, catatonically quiet. I like to think we just needed practice; the short, rare meetings couldn’t break through the stiffness. I’ve posited theory after theory to explain our inability to connect. JM is surrounded by people. He’s moved about twice in his entire life, has had one successful, fulfilling job since college, and lives near a group of friends from high school who get together at least once a week. He’s happy. Un-needy. I’ve moved from place to place, at first because I lived with my moving parents, and then because I inherited their restlessness. So, when someone like me, with family but no friends, discontent, restless, meets someone like JM—friendly, seemingly available—that person might, like me, spiral obsessively into the relationship. JM moves in straight, clear, predictable lines. In movies and books, the line vs. spiral relationship often ends with the spiraller, usually a woman, clinging obsessively until she decides, finally, to get therapy and/or gleefully slam her car into other parked cars. These spiralley feelings were (and still are, in some ways) my Existential Cowlick; I try to locate and spit on them, but sometimes the wispy ends break through, the longing pops up, and I might write twice instead of waiting for someone to write back.
* * *
I started IJ in the midst of this emotional turmoil after having avoided it for several weeks. Its size—1079 pages, 94 of which are microscopic end notes—stymied me, and I feared I wouldn’t like it. The first page made me angry. Way too smart. I-the-Author-thumb-my-nose-at-you-the-Reader. But for the sake of JM and myself, I kept reading. Soon enough, the humor seduced me—I softened, laughed out loud. When I periodically flipped to the back cover to muse at the small picture of DFW, my delight grew to obsession. A young man, looking down as if at a page of his own writing, with a crooked grin, bandanna, straight nose, and stubbly jaw. Comfortable, sexy, smart. I read rabidly, for him, then, as much as for JM. I felt exposed by the book’s brutal but deft psychology–the mother who makes up for not loving her children by loving them too much, the woman with the beautiful figure who wears a veil to cover her face and goes by “Madame Psychosis” on her late-night radio show, the large-headed, lumbering AA director Don Gately, lost in his inferiority, who accidentally killed an attaché in his criminal past. The violence–head in a microwave. The weirdness–yogi who lives on top of the locker room towel dispenser and licks the boys’ sweat. The plot–Canada/U.S. war, and the terrorists who kill with a video cartridge. Year of Glad, Year of the Trial-Sized Dove Bar. Febrile, apocopes, bolections, anfractuous, semaphore.
At the end of the book, I hated DFW again. Nothing worked out. Madame Psychosis and Don Gately did not live happily ever after. Now, I knew the whole time that this was not a happy-ending kind of book, and I usually shut down emotionally when I read such books so the ending doesn’t annihilate me. But in this case, I was Madame Psychosis, and a DFW/JM combination was Gately, especially since all three have large heads. So when everything collapsed at the end, I collapsed. I cried bitterly. I tore my hair. I decided to write to DFW.
* * *
Parts of the Letter [9]
Dear DFW, [...] I was introduced to you about four months ago. I read IJ first; it was a loaner. If I were to loan your books, I’d break the poor person in with Brief Interviews[10], but I think the loaner was either testing me or trying to keep from having to see me for a really long time. [I continue with my reactions to the book, focusing on the things I liked]. More praise later...let me diverge now for a brief summary of relevant personal info. to hopefully make you aware of the variety of readers you’ve influenced (i.e., I like to write about myself). [The next few paragraphs relate my experience with some of his major themes: religion, substance-abuse, depression, and sex.[11] This next excerpt is from the closing paragraph.] Critics quoted on the covers call you “hugely funny,” with a “devilish wit,” “an intelligence and a swagger,” etc. It’s all true, but it makes me picture them sitting upright in a posh leather chair, wearing tailored pants—legs crossed—and reading with a detached smirk. You ARE funny; sometimes I laugh out loud. [...] But mostly I read in fascinated shame and horror and self-consciousness; even after I’ve stopped and recovered somewhat, I am in a funk. [...] I can be driving down the road, and just thinking of the physical book or your name and feel a sudden weight...But I will keep reading, which may be a sign of sickness, but is probably a sign that your work is compelling and powerful in a way that makes me hope that someday I’ll recover and realize that you’re not that great after all–it’s uncomfortable to be so consumed.
* * *
After a couple of months with no response, I started to feel like I’d always felt when JM didn’t write back: that something must be wrong with me. And that something was wrong with me for even wanting a response.[12] About six months later, after I’d read most of his books and revised my reaction to IJ, I wrote to him again, giving more praise, asking more questions, and trying to explain why his novels engaged me so much more than others of their type.
After posting the letter, my imagination spat out scenarios like arcade tickets. What if he sends a private detective to spy on me, and the detective is so impressed that he tells DFW, who then comes to see for himself, and then we meet and are friends, and he comes over to watch movies, and I don’t even care if he smokes in the house? What if he sits on my couch, and I sit in the chair, and then he reaches back and pulls me over with him? We wouldn’t have to have a traditional wedding.
The fantasies combined with embarrassment at my decline into pathetic fandom and fear that DFW would see my second letter and label me a stalker.[13]
In December of 2001, about a month after my second letter, I opened my mailbox to find a large white card addressed with a male hand, in uncentered, downward-slanting, black-markered letters. I knew before I looked at the return address and saw the almost illegible “Wallace” scrawled in the top left corner. I Knew. The universe jerked into alignment, my cells were at attention, electrons clamored just beneath my skin. I managed to fit the key into the lock and rush inside my apartment. I sat on the couch, awestruck, and tore open the envelope. Inside was a cheap Christmas card, the variety-pack kind, with two ugly puppies and “Season’s Greetings” on the front. On the inside, he’d used the same black marker to print above and below the “May Your Holidays Be Merry and Bright.” I could have seen my heart beat if I’d looked. My cheeks were burning. The black block letters all ran together, so I could barely read it. “Dear C2” (Dear C2? C2?? What is that if not love?) “I have both your letters in hand and want to write to thank you for them¼”
* * *
The card cheered me up considerably at first. But after a few days it began to seem surreal and depressing. Did he say “with both your letters in hand” to subtly suggest that I’d gone too far? Was the suggestion that I’d “taken the trouble” to write a kind way of giving me back my dignity, as if I were condescending to him instead of vice-versa? The card sat propped on a shelf with my other Christmas cards, the two little dogs frozen mid-yap. Is he making fun of me with the dogs, or inviting me to join in a private joke about the inanity of Christmas cards? He just wrote a paragraph. I wrote him two letters, two pages each, loaded with things he could have responded to. “Dear C2.” To me, that says, “Cindy, I have a special feeling for you–you are somewhat dear to me, which is why I made up a special, endearing nickname just for you.” My brain played the predator. Why did you think you’d be satisfied if he wrote back? What if he wrote because you seemed unstable and, being a nice guy, he feared for your life?
Clearly, the only way to redeem myself, to prove my sanity, was to write once again. A fun, normal Christmas card would be just the thing, and perhaps even a new beginning for our relationship. I picked an equally dorky card from my stockpile of free National Wildlife Federation cards they’d sent in hopes of a donation. It had two little birds on the front. I wrote a small paragraph, very casual and sophisticated, trying to engage him intellectually by recommending Julian Barnes’ Flaubert’s Parrot, since it related to his essay about literary theory in ASFTINDA.[14] It was a good note. But then I ruined it by putting in one of my homemade, bank-employee Christmas ornaments. Very funny if you’re sending it to a friend who knows you. Very eyebrow-raising if you’re sending it to a stranger who probably already suspects your psychological health. If I hadn’t put it in, would he have written back?
Clearly, I’d made an ass of myself. I showed my family the card he’d sent, but no one else—especially not JM. Keeping it secret a) hid my shame, b) let me go on pretending it meant more than the written words, and c) let me hope that despite his achievements, he’d still be a person that could enjoy getting to know another person and maybe even find it funny when that person sends him a silly Christmas ornament as a joke.
* * *
I never heard from DFW again, although JM and I continued a slower-paced correspondence over the next year. Like DFW, JM tends to have strong right-brained proclivities for math and science, he writes stories, he plays tennis. I think he even read the dictionary as a kid. So I had these two men. One who wouldn’t be known, and one who, realistically speaking, couldn’t be known. Once again, I posited theories to explain my obsession with both. But it’s simple, really. Loneliness, the need for an audience, the suppressed desire to write. I wrote poetry in my master’s program, but when I graduated, I stopped. Writing is a solitary act, and I was already lonely. Polishing a piece for my own eyes seemed a burden, a reminder of my aloneness, rather than a possible delight. When I reconnected with JM, I suddenly had an audience. I could write for someone. And because I believed that my writing self was my true self, I mistook email for relationship, DFW books for DFW, art for reality. The failure of both relationships made me feel I’d failed as a writer; as if I’d only stumbled on the right alchemy of words, both men would have been unable to resist.
Now, in my third year of an MFA program, my gigantic leap for self-preservation, I’ve replaced writing to JM with writing poetry and creative non-fiction.[15] Now, I have an audience of classmates, teachers, and friends. I’ve generously shared DFW selections with my creative writing students. Although I still struggle with loneliness, I finally feel capable of being a solitary person.[16]
Sort of. I found out last week that DFW may come here to Penn State to give a reading next year, and the imagination went chia-pet, and the Cowlick sprang straight up.
I wait at the airport, holding a sign that says “DFW.” I see him coming down the corridor, carry-on in hand. My nerves are spilling out everywhere, like the woman in IJ who, because of her unfortunately gelatinous head, must wear a helmet to keep it all in place. He sees the sign. He’s tall, and more raggedy than his picture. I smile. Calmly.
Hi. DFW? I’m Cindy. We shake hands. Nice to meet you.
He seems disoriented. Is there a restroom nearby?
Yeah...over there. I’ll just wait out here.
He comes out a few minutes later, looking more relaxed. I smile. He smiles back.
I’m sorry, what’d you say your name was?
Cindy. (I pause). Clem. (Pause again). C-squared. (I laugh, embarrassed).
He looks at me, then starts to smile. No way. Really.
I blush. Yes. You know, I’m so embarrassed...I can’t believe I–
He smiles. Well.
So you’re not too worried about your safety, having to ride home with your stalker?
Not at all.
Do you have other bags?
We walk over to baggage claim, watch the merry-go-round spit out bloated suitcases. We don’t quite know what to say. I am trying to breathe deeply without him noticing.
So, how was your flight?
Not bad. Here’s mine. He grabs his suitcase.
I think we have to go out this way.
We don’t say much, but we have An Understanding.
Our walk to the car is awkward. He takes long strides, head and shoulders bent toward the ground. His hair is messy, pulled back under the bandanna. He’s wearing glasses, unlike his author photographs. I wonder if he thinks I’m pretty.
We shove aside my beat up box of cat litter and extra quarts of oil in order to fit his luggage in the trunk. It’s a hard box to shove, sitting on top of an old hula hoop I keep meaning to throw out. He helps me shove it. It’s the closest we’ve been, our arms bumping. My car has a dent in the front left corner, and the hood paint is patchy, thanks to a few slips of the shovel when I tried to dig it out of a six-foot drift last winter. I like to think of DFW knowing that I dig cars out of drifts–and imagining how stunningly pretty I am while doing it.
It takes almost all my concentration to drive like an adult. But I couldn’t function if I had to focus solely on DFW, so I drive slowly, much more carefully than usual, and let him sit and absorb the wonder of our meeting, our implicit, immediate connection. He’s a bit overweight, but I think I can handle it.[17]
Footnotes:
[1] Not really.
[2] “Well! Shower hose installed! Nothing to hold it up, though. Felt like a primitive, squatting in the tub (get a small stool to sit on!) – but soft water will be better for my skin...” Or this: “My own kitchen! My own utensils! Long sleek stainless steel spoons, spatula, whisk–beautiful stainless steel colander, strainer, measuring cups and spoons– oh so pretty and elegant and cold.”
[3] High agitation, for me, involves a rushing punctuated by sudden dead moments of staring into space. My ears hum. I could probably lift a dryer. I can’t sleep. I can’t digest. I get a lot done. I try to sleep but toss and turn, dream with my eyes half-open. I dream I am standing in front of my closet, and he joins me there and puts his arm around me, and I turn to kiss him, and his face shifts into something repulsive, and his kiss fills my mouth with putty.
[4] Journal excerpt, 10-00
Convincing Arguments For Writing:
Like we learn in the Bible, it never hurts to be generous. Be generous with your friendship!
He may be expecting me to write, thinking, mistakenly, that it’s my turn.
We have not had an exchange since last Monday, and I need to remind him of myself, since who knows who he might have met over the weekend.
I have things to tell him, and it’s more natural to tell him about the weekend Monday instead of Tuesday.
I may be very busy tomorrow.
Convincing Arguments Against Writing:
If I wait until tomorrow, tomorrow will be a happy day.
He won’t think I’m as desperate as if I write today.
He may even feel sad that I didn’t write and wonder why he’s feeling that way. These kinds of ruminations could have positive outcomes.
I don’t want to be a burden.
I may be very busy today.
[5] Journal excerpts, 10-12 /2000
· I wrote to him and I’m embarrassed that I did, especially since he didn’t write back, and therefore I came home and ate too many dates.
· He wrote to me today!! Before I wrote to him!! He liked my prayer satire “immensely” although it makes him “a little worried about me ;)” God, if you’ve ever heard a prayer, hear my soul’s plea now.
· I’ve been gripped by the fear that I am the fling in JM’s life that will make him realize he loves R.
·
[6] And why is that, nuthead??? WHY IS THAT???
[7] No alcohol, you ask? It never occurred to me, with my conservative, church-going, small-town background. I’m sure it wouldn’t have occurred to JM, either. Although if it had, and we’d drunk it, I might not have had to write this story. We might be married, living in Texas, eating pretzels made from machines for which he wrote the manuals.
[8] To Do Before JM Comes:
take stool out of tub
spray this old-dog carpet with Febreze
make sure laundry basket is halfway moral
empty trash
make sure teddy bear isn’t in a masturbating position
put teddy away – how old are you, anyway??
[9] I’ve had to try very hard not to edit this excerpt. I’m ashamed that I didn’t read it more carefully before I sent it.
[10] Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, which I’d also read by the time I sent this letter.
[11] The sex section is only one sentence: “Sex: Learned some things from Brief Interviews but still don’t know what a Dildo is.” Ok. That’s humiliating to admit, but my lack of dildo-education, like the no-alcohol thing, results from my strictly contained background. Now, getting the Oxygen channel, I know far too much about sex and am embarrassed to have exposed my naiveté.
[12] I still have this problem, and I don’t know how to stop wanting except to find an island, live there alone, and spear fish and crack coconuts.
[13] The Stalker Debate, 2001: Am I or Aren’t I?
1. I don’t feel that different from other people. I look well-adjusted and feel well-adjusted at least 60% of the time. Isn’t it natural to be friendly–to try to connect with someone in reality who I feel connected to through reading?
2. It’s probably a bad sign that I don’t want anyone--except those I love--to read his books. It’s probably also a bad sign that I stopped wanting to read his books. Is that why stalkers kill the objects of their obsession—to get them out of their heads?
3. Another bad sign is that I’ve started to plan where he’ll stay when he comes to visit. “Well, there are three options,” I’ll say. “My parents and my sister and brother-in-law both live nearby. You’d probably be most comfortable at my sister’s. They have a huge house, my brother-in-law’s about your age, and I’d be within short walking distance.”
4. What’s the point in not pursuing something until you slam into a wall? Otherwise, how would you know whether the wall exists?
5. Sometimes when I see my blue-jeaned leg stretched out across the couch, knee cocked at a certain alluring angle, I wish DFW could see it too.
6. One of his books is dedicated to L—. Who the hell is L? A woman, no doubt. No doubt he loves her. L for love.
7. If I were a true stalker, I’d have cut his picture from the back of the book and put it in the little frame Cathie from Bible study gave me.
8. I just want someone to TALK to me.
[14] A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again
[15] That sounds too quick and easy. JM and I are a long story, full of starts and stops, of rare awkward meetings. I’ve stopped writing several times only to feel guilty (Who am I to be giving up a friendship? Why does this have to be a big deal?) and write again. When I don’t write, I feel sane, free. But then the deceptively good dreams start, and he becomes, in my head, a fantasy of himself, and I think that maybe we have a chance after all, if I could just be different, more normal. I decided not to respond to his last email of four months ago, and I think it’s for real this time. I’m worn out. Frustration and desire have staled, at long last. Is it over? I hope so. But he might write next week, having no concept of lapsing time or of How to Read Important Relationship Signals. I hope I can stay resolved. I need a hotline. 1-800-GET-REAL.
[16] Pretty much, anyway. Ok, well not really, but more so than before. Kind of.
[17] If DFW really came to town, would I rush to see him? No. If DFW came to town, would we live happily ever after? No. If DFW came to town, I’d be too embarrassed to introduce myself. Even if I could overcome the shame, I wouldn’t have the courage to face the sadness of meeting him and then seeing him leave.
A character in William Faulkner’s Go Down Moses says, “But women hope for so much. They never live too long to still believe that anything within the scope of their passionate wanting is likewise within the range of their passionate hope.” But I say that hope is the evil corporation of the imagination. And when hope is re-introduced, it strips away all the mental dexterity and emotional complexity so carefully stockpiled and sets up a factory that churns out the same tired dream again and again and again and again and the careful stockpiles rot and the only thought is Now and the only emotion is Need.
I.e., if DFW can’t make it, and if JM never writes again, I’ll probably be better off.
Postscript:
When I heard of David Foster Wallace’s suicide in 2008, about 10 years after I started this essay, I hadn’t read his work for awhile. Since my stalker-years, I’d put him aside and lost interest in reading his new books. When I heard of his death, it felt like an old wound opening. I cried for myself, cried for him, cried for the loss of a genius, and then opened Infinite Jest randomly to the section where he holds forth on depression in his usual devastatingly profound way. I cried for his depression. I read The New York Times obituary, read that he’d married an artist just several years before. I read David Lipsky’s Although of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself, the account of his road trip with DFW; I watched, for the first time, youtube clips of DFW reading and lecturing and interviewing. Now that he had died, I could let myself see him as he was: a large, hirsute, soft-spoken man, odd and probably lonely as only geniuses can be. I can see that he would have been a good teacher, gifted in giving students credit for more intelligence than they demonstrate. I bought and read The Pale King, and reading it didn’t feel painful (not even the boring parts – I read them with a sort of motherly benevolence); it felt like a connection again, but this time to the writing and to a brain at work, not to the bandanna-ed image. I admired him anew, and then laid him to rest.
