Although David Foster Wallace is one of my favorite writers of all time, I’ve put off examining his prose until late in this series.
I did this on purpose, because the writers we have looked at “follow the rules.” They use clean, minimalist prose. It’s easy to see and articulate why it is good. It’s what we should all learn to do before developing our own styles.
I know this is a bit of controversial advice.
Many people say to develop your own style from the start and not waste time trying to emulate famous writers. It’s not so much that I think one should be able to emulate it, but that one should understand what makes simple prose effective before layering in complexity.
I’ve read about how DFW taught writing and believe he took this same approach.
You can’t build a house without a foundation.
I think that if anyone tries to write in the way of DFW without first understanding the basics, it will come off as a complete mess. So consider yourself warned, but do whatever you want.
To borrow a term from Greg Carlisle, DFW’s prose has an elegant complexity to it.
The point of this post is to try to get at what this could mean (though Carlisle was referring to the overall structure of Infinite Jest with that term).
David Foster Wallace Prose Style
David Foster Wallace’s prose still has the elegance of the previous writers from this series but with a layered complexity built on top of it.
Here is a sentence we get early on in Infinite Jest:
The Dean at left, a lean yellowish man whose fixed smile nevertheless has the impermanent quality of something stamped into uncooperative material, is a personality-type I’ve come lately to appreciate, the type who delays need of any response from me by relating my side of the story for me, to me.
Most people should be able to read this and understand it on the first time through. This should strike you as strange.
It begins with the placement of a person, followed by an 18-word descriptive appositive (containing further qualification after the relative pronoun), continues the first part, and ends with a 21-word, nonessential comma clause descriptor.
Normally, a creative writing instructor would mark this as too long and confusing structurally to be read easily.
So why does it work here?
That question is hard to answer because we don’t have earlier, unedited versions to compare it to. The best way to get a sense of its workings is to try to think of some changes and see how it makes things worse.
Shifting Things Around
One thing we could do is eliminate this business about the smile.
The passage as a whole would read more easily. But the phrase “impermanent quality of something stamped into uncooperative material” is too good.
This sentence is on the first page of the novel, and that phrase, in particular, sets the tone of the novel perfectly.
Think about that phrase for a second. There’s something very dark about it. It implies the person is forced to smile constantly (“fixed”), but who does not smile often (the stamp of the smile reverts to the original shape because of the “uncooperative material” aka his face).
At the same time, the description is so unique and striking, it almost comes off as comical. And this perfectly describes the tone of the novel. It’s dark, yet almost comical.
So we can’t eliminate that part. We could always break it off into its own sentence, but again, it just doesn’t seem important enough to do that. The subordinate flow we get by sticking it into an appositive fits its importance.
Paring it Back?
In the next part, could we eliminate “lately” without losing anything? I’d say yes. This fits with the rule to eliminate adverbs.
On the other hand, we’ve basically gone all-in on the wordiness, so it might be better to ask: does it sufficiently detract from the meaning to remove it? I’d say no.
It fits the wordy flow to leave it in, and we have to imagine there were other ones that were cut, considering it is the only adverb in the entire passage.
Think about the alternative and wordier “something stamped hesitantly into uncooperative material.” The adverb there really does add a few too many unnecessary words to make the image appear in your head. It gets a touch too confusing.
The last clause begins by reiterating “the type.” This acts to reground the reader. It reiterates the subject of the clause, and we could imagine many ways to phrase it that doesn’t make it this clear.
In conclusion, the structure of the sentence may be complex, and the word count makes it look excessively wordy, but DFW keeps the excess to a minimum like we’ve talked about before.
He also keeps each segment fully self-contained so that there is no confusion about the subject at each point. The basics of clear writing are still there underneath the added complexity.
Homework: Try the same type of analysis with this sentence from a later section (hint: it might have lots of places it could be cleaned up, but has the voice changed? is the tone intentionally different? does context matter?).
If it’s odd that Mario Incandenza’s first halfway-coherent film cartridge — a 48-minute job shot three summers back in the carefully decorated janitor-closet of Subdorm B with his head-mount Bolex H64 and foot-treadle — if it’s odd that Mario’s first finished entertainment consists of a film of a puppet show — like a kids’ puppet show — then it probably seems even odder that the film’s proven to be way more popular with E.T.A.’s adults and adolescents than it is with the woefully historically underinformed children it had first been made for.
More in the Series
- Examining Michael Chabon’s Prose
- Examing Ian McEwan’s Prose
- Examining John Cheever’s Prose
- Examining Nell Zink’s Prose
- Examining Jonathan Franzen’s Prose
- Examining Philip Roth’s Prose
- Examining Ethan Canin’s Prose
- Examining F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Prose
- Examining J.M. Coetzee’s Prose
- Examining John Irving’s Prose
- Examining Graham Greene’s Prose
- Examining J.K. Rowling’s Prose