An Underwhelming Under-appreciation of DFW from Past-Self

Hello dear readers.  It has come to my attention that DFW, in many literary circles that I am undoubtedly not a part of, have stormed the minarets of the ivory towers with DFW(David Foster Wallace, for those of you new to the sport) novels in tow.  It seems strange to me, now, reputo, teetering between procrastination and auto-erotic-sapiosexual-masturbatory-calisthenics, via profuse altercations with self and surely the convivence of a third party verbal-sparring partner, that would heretofore generate sparks of tenuous lexicographical combat which would yield obfuscated -presumptuous pretentiousness, albeit- apprehension to the reader, whom could only attempt to grab with his or her (preferably “they,” but the unfortunate entendre of plurality is too overtly narcissistic to the dearth of readers that I do -with pleasure- have)  fleeting attention(sic), that such a literary form would become so notable.  I, however, in passing back over time spent in the folly of youth and the predicaments of dilettante illiteracy, realize, now, clearly -or more clearly at the very least- that I, or whom I hope to ascribe “I” to -cyclical writing can be so profound, was under-appreciative of DFW’s methods to madness –Read: Mad-ness, Read: Genius.  The method that DFW brings, and continues to bring after his demise, is one of complexity in interwoven stories that demonstrates what good literature can do, with or without, such vortexes of erudite extrapolations.  It pulls the reader down.  Down a rabbit’s hole of symbolism, allusions (keep up), and, hopefully, self-pondering -Reflection being the more apt choice of word, but pondering giving more lee-way to the idea of profundity intrinsic in {some} literature.  This depth, dare I call it reality, to a story is the key parameter that gives it life, its ebbs and flows.  The ability for our minds to not only engage with the story, but live in it.  The feeling of literature that moves us, its deepness, is not found in the ability to make us peer over the edge of brilliance and see the shadows, it is the sensation of falling, that the clothe on Mary in La Piatra is not clothe at all, but stone, and we are the billowing of the fabric, the shooting of the shadows, the arch of the back, and the suppliant hands facing the heavens.  Great art is to turn supine while falling, catch glimpse of the stars above, knowing that looking down gives of no indication if our view of the Earth is merely a zoomed in picture of where we truly are.


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