The Broom of the System [Taschenbuch]

"The Broom of the System" is Wallace's debut, and like most first-borns, it received the most love and attention. It's more accessible than "Infinite Jest" and can be read more easily in smaller chunks without having to figure out, for example, when the events being narrated actually took place.

There isn't much of a plot in "Broom," which is remarkable when one considers that the novel runs over 500 pages. Loosely speaking, it's about the travails of Lenore Stonecipher Beadsman, a 24 year old woman who works as a telephone switch operator for a magazine edited by her lover, Rick Vigorous, who is anything but. Her grandmother (also named Lenore) has disappeared from her nursing home, and Lenore is the only one who seems worried. But that's only a fraction of what the book is about.

It's full of stories within stories, some the sad submissions that Vigorous derides (but that are far better than his limp and self-indulgent attempts at writing), others little asides that seem irrelevant but aren't. Mostly, "Broom" is an exploration of language and ideas -- some chapters involve highly detailed descriptions of, for example, the Goldberg-like trail of a pebble; other chapters are entirely dialogue, with no description of who is speaking (but which is clear from context).

In other words, this is not a novel about sex and drugs (although there are sex and drugs), and it's not a shallow, Gen-Ex picture of excess. The nearest comparison I can think of, in a loose way, is Neal Stephenson's "Cryptonomicon."

Was that last statement too annoying? Perhaps. But that's the tone Wallace affords, with more mastery of the technique of writing, of course, I do not intend to say I can write as well as him. For, first and foremost, he is a magnificent writer, and a very funny one, by the way. With his droll intellectual riddles and attacks on psychology, literature and religion, I could envision him as a pomo Woody Allen. (Minus menschness, natch).

As any really creative writer, though, his ingenuity seems to get out of hand at times. Observe the "Gilligan's Island" theme bar the characters patronize at the city of Cleveland. He goes for broke milking this concept, where all the servers have been hired for their passing resemblance to Bob Denver, and once every hour one of them will perform a pratfall and have the patrons reward him with an "Aww, Gilligan." There's good comment on the entertainment culture of America here... but it feels overwrought. And thus becomes tedious rather than fresh. (A sad state of affairs, mind you.)

And the overarching theme of the novel dangerously dances on that edge itself. Ah, yes! The "Self vs. Other" issue, the hygiene anxiety, the permeability dilemma. Or, in layman terms, "the fear to whatever is beyond you". That's the driving force of this book, a subject he investigates at length, but perhaps with too much "Am I not so intelligent?" showmanship. I can understand why another reviewer cried "Masturbation!" at this intellectual overkill. I don't think Wallace was simply getting off on all the mind acrobatics: he is trying to make a point. But the messenger muddles the message. (Oy!)

In the end, it seemed to me there was too much Other invading the Self. Wallace sets up an increasingly complex plot, only to forego it at the very end and let us draw our own conclusions. That is not a bad thing in itself, but he leaves us grasping at shadows instead of at substance. Again, he has a point to make from it... but pounding you with it as hard as possible. On closing, this is one helluva anti-novel: one that is a lot more fun to dissect as a lab frog than to read. (If there are any fellow dissectors who would like to share their observations, please do write me.)

(Had enough of parenthesis-enclosed wisecracks?)

Postscript: After "The Broom of the System", I don't feel like reading another stridently long David Foster Wallace work in the foreseeable future. I will give it a crack to his shorter writings, though. Following a friend's suggestion (Hi, Laura!), I've brought home a copy of "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll never do again". Maybe I'll find more focus in smaller doses of Wallace than in the largest.