Over the holidays I took my third crack at Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace (all my posts on DFW) and made it 800 pages. I was unable to follow the plot arc to the very end. But the novel still contains many highly entertaining and provocative sections. Below are my favorite sentences from a truthfulness perspective, favorite paragraphs (truthfulness or just good writing), and then favorite sentences from a writing perspective. For web readers the post continues below the fold…
Sentences With Interesting Truths:
- “A poor sport’s punishment is always self-inflicted.”
- “He likes…getting to be kind in a way that costs him nothing.”
- “The vapider the cliche, the sharper the canines of the real truth it covers.”
- “Try to let what is unfair teach you.”
- “What people don’t get about being hideously or improbably deformed is that the urge to hide is offset by a gigantic sense of shame about your urge to hide.”
- “Tennis’s beauty’s infinite roots are self-competitive. You compete with your own limits to transcend the self in imagination and execution. Disappear inside the game: break through limits: transcend: improve: win.”
- “The E.T.A [tennis academy] is mostly a comparatively unsexual place, maybe almost surprisingly so, considering the constant roar and gurgle here of adolescent glands, the emphasis on physicality, the fears of mediocrity, the back-and-forth struggles with ego, the loneliness and the close proximity.” [The relationship between fears of mediocrity and loneliness and sexual activity.]
- “The United States: a community of sacred individuals which reveres the sacredness of the individual choice. The individual’s right to pursue his own vision of the best ratio of pleasure to pain: utterly sacrosanct.”
- “Please learn the pragmatics of expressing fear: sometimes words that seem to express really invoke.”
On what you learn from a substance recovery clinic:
- That there’s a certain type of person who carries a picture of their therapist in their wallet.
- That (both a relief and a kind of an odd let-down) black penises tend to be the same general size as white penises, on the whole.
- That certain persons simply will not like you no matter what you do. Then that most nonaddicted adult civilians have already absorbed and accepted this fact, often rather early on.
- That no matter how smart you thought you were, you are actually way less smart than that.
- That sleeping can be a form of emotional escape and can with sustained effort be abused.
- That you do not have to like a person in order to learn from him/her/it.
- That loneliness is not a function of solitude.
- That cliquey alliance and exclusion and gossip can be forms of escape.
- That it is statistically easier for low-IQ people to kick an addiction than it is for high-IQ people.
- That there is such a thing as raw, unalloyed, agendaless kindness.
- That it is simply more pleasant to be happy than it is to be pissed off.
- That 99% of compulsive thinkers’ thinking is about themselves. That most Substance-addicted people are also addicted to thinking, meaning they have a compulsive and unhealthy relationship with their own thinking.
- That the people to be most frightened of are the people who are the most frightened.
- That it takes great personal courage to let yourself appear weak.
- That you don’t have to hit somebody even if you really really want to.
- That pretty much everybody masturbates.
- That everybody’s sneeze sounds different.
- That having sex with someone you do not care for feels lonelier than not having sex in the first place, afterward.
- The shopworn “Act in Haste, Repent at Leisure” would seem to have been custom-designed for the case of tattoos.
- That “acceptance” is usually more a matter of fatigue than anything else.
- That different people have radically different ideas of basic personal hygiene.
- That, perversely, it is often more fun to want something than to have it.
- That if you do something nice for somebody in secret, anonymously, without letting the person you did it for know it was you or anybody else know what it was you did or in any way shape or form trying to get credit for it, it’s almost its own form of intoxicating buzz.
- That everybody is identical in their secret unspoken belief that way deep down they are different from everyone else.
- That AA and NA does not apparently require that you believe in Him/Her/It before He/She/It will help you.
- That sometimes human beings have to just sit in one place and, like, hurt.
Favorite Paragraphs (Truthfulness or Good Writing)
On the fear of not fulfilling potential:
Talent is its own expectation, Jim: you either live up to it or it waves a hankie, receding forever. Use it or lose it, he say over the newspaper. I’m…I’m just afraid of having a tombstone that says HERE LIES A PROMISING OLD MAN. Potential maybe worse than none, Jim. Than no talent to fritter in the first place, lying around guzzling because I haven’t the balls to…God I’m I’m so sorry Jim. You don’t deserve to see me like this. I’m so scared, Jim. I’m so scared of dying without ever really being seen. Can you understand? Are you enough of a big thin prematurely stooped young bespectacled man, even with your whole life still ahead of you, to understand? Can you see I was giving it all I had?
On the challenge of focus and staying positive at the elite levels of competitiveness:
Then the concentration and character shit starts. Then they really come after you. This is the crucial plateau where character starts to matter. Focus, self-consciousness, the chattering head, the cackling voices, the chocking issue, fear versus whatever isn’t fear, self-image, doubts, reluctances, little tight-lipped cold-footed men inside your mind, cackling about fear and doubt, chinks in the mental armor.
On the idolatry of uniqueness that afflicts college students and addicts:
People of a certain age and level of like life-experience believe they’re immortal: college students and alcoholics/addicts are the worst: they deep-down believe they’re exempt from the laws of physics and statistics that ironly govern everybody else. They’ll piss and moan your ear off if somebody else fucks with the rules, but they don’t deep down see themselves subject to them, the same rules. And they’re constitutionally unable to learn from anybody else’s experience: if some jaywalking B.U. student does get his car towed, your other student’s or addict’s response to this will be to ponder just what imponderable difference makes it possible for that other guy to get splattered or towed and not him, the ponderer. They never doubt the difference — they just ponder it. It’s like a kind of idolatry of uniqueness.
On managing fear as an athlete, and why weaker opponents are especially scary:
Be a Student of the Game. Like most cliches of sport, this is profound. You can be shaped, or you can be broken. There is not much in between. Try to learn. Be coachable. Try to learn from everybody, especially those who fail. This is hard…Opponents. It’s all educational. How promising you are as a Student of the Game is a function of what you can pay attention to without running away. Nets and fences can be mirrors. And between nets and fences, opponents are also mirrors. This is why the whole thing is scary. This is why all opponents are scary and weaker opponents are especially scary. See yourself in your opponents. They will bring you to understand the Game. To accept the fact that the Game is about managed fear. That its object is to send from yourself what you hope will not return.
On love and self-worship:
“What if sometimes there is no choice about what to love? What if the temple comes to Mohammed? What if you just love? Without deciding? You just do: you see her and in that instant are lost to sober account-keeping and cannot choose but to love?
Marath’s sniff held disdain: “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 become 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.”
The last sentence contains a truism I haven’t heard before:
Hal some weeks back had acquiesced to Lyle’s diagnosis that Hal finds Ingersoll — this smart soft caustic kid, with a big soft eyebrowless face and unwrinkled thumb-joints, with the runty, cuddled look of a Mama’s boy from way back, a quick intelligence he squanders on an insatiable need to advance some impression of himself — that the kid so repels Hal because Hal sees in the kid certain parts of himself he can’t or won’t accept.
One of the best scenes of the novel, the athletic recruit speaks and defends himself:
I open my eyes. ‘Please don’t think I don’t care.’
On how to present well in an Alcoholics Anonymous session:
The thing is it has to be the truth to really go over, here. It can’t be a calculated crowd-pleaser, and it has to be the truth unslanted, unfortified. And maximally unironic. An ironist in a Boston AA meeting is a witch in church. Irony-free zone. Same with sly disingenuous manipulative pseudo-sincerity. Sincerity with an ulterior motive is something these tough ravaged people know and fear, all of them trained to remember the coyly sincere, ironic, self-presenting fortifications they’d had to construct in order to carry on Out There, under the ceaseless neon bottle.
On what it’s like to be and feel depressed:
It’s the mornings after the spider-and-heights dreams that are the most painful, that it takes sometimes three coffees and two showers and sometimes a run to loosen the grip on his soul’s throat; and these post-dream mornings are even worse if he wakes unalone, if the previous night’s Subject is still there, wanting to twitter, or to cuddle and, like, spoon, asking what exactly is the story with the foggy inverted tumblers on the bathroom floor, commenting on his night-sweats, clattering around in the kitchen, making kippers or bacon or something more hideous and unhoneyed he’s supposed to eat with post-coital male gusto, the ones who have this thing about they call it Feeding My Man, wanting a man who can barely keep down A.M. honey-toast to east with male gusto, elbows out and sovelling, making little noises. Even when alone, unable to uncurl alone and sit slowly up and wing out the sheet and go to the bathroom, these darkest mornings start days that Orin can’t even bring himself for hours to think about how he’ll get through the day. These worst mornings with cold floors and hot windows and merciless light — the soul’s certainty that the day will have to be not traversed but sort of climbed, vertically, and then that going to sleep again at the end of it will be like falling, again, off something tall and sheer.
On the benefits of being “damaged” in terms of what people open up to you about:
Mario is basically a born listener. One of the positives to being visibly damaged is that people can sometimes forget you’re there, even when they’re interfacing with you. You almost get to eavesdrop. It’s almost like they’re like: If nobody’s really in there, there’s nothing to be shy about. That’s why bullshit often tends to drop away around damaged listeners, deep beliefs revealed, diary-type private reveries indulged out loud; and, listening, the beaming and brady-kinetic boy gets to forget an interpersonal connection he knows only he can truly feel, here.
Favorite Sentence Constructions / Phrasing / Words:
- “The room’s carbonated silence is now hostile.”
- Imagine if you had “the neural distillate of, say, orgasm, religious enlightenment, ecstatic drugs, shiatsu, a crackling fire on a winter night — the sum of all possible pleasures refined into pure current and deliverable at the flip of a hand-held lever. Thousands of times an hour, at will.”
- “Your mouth is making those dry sticky inadequate-saliva sounds.”
- “He wakes up soaked, fetally curled, entombed in that kind of psychic darkness where you’re dreading whatever you think of.”
- “Schitt has the sort of creepy wiriness of old men who still exercise vigorously.”
- “His hands were tiny and pink and hairless and butt-soft, delicate as shells.”
- “A respectable but my no means to-write-home-about 43rd nationally…”
- “He was finally told that he seemed to have some kind of empty swinging sack where his balls ought to be.”
- “the siren is creepily muffled by the no-sound of falling snow.”
- “Yet Green is not so quiet and unresponding that it’s like with some silent people where you start to wonder if he’s listening to a sympathizing ear or if he’s really drifting around in his own self-oriented thoughts…”
- “…that contain and direct its infinite expression inward, that make tennis like chess on the run, beautiful and infinitely dense?”