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3.93 AVERAGE
3.93 AVERAGE
For those particularly satisfied with a book after reading it, may I exhort you: read it again a few years later. The familiarity of the material makes the characters stand out, and the sentences scream nearly toward sentience.
Thus was the case when I dove back into D.F. Wallace’s ‘The Pale King.’ I re-read it after nearly the same length of time as had passed between Wallace’s death and its official published date.
“An Unfinished Novel” is a title-cased epitaph sandwiched between the book’s title and the author’s name on the title page. It’s sad, apt, and misleading. Sad for the obvious reasons; apt w/r/t descriptiveness; misleading in that it might dissuade a reader to plunk down hard-earned $ for something unfinished.
While the whole of the narrative surely would’ve been longer, is the upfront negation not dissimilar to defining shooting stars as unfinished? We see its, the star’s, partial arc and we revel in its beauty. We wonder where it will end up. But beautiful is the illumination of which we are able to view the star’s parabolic scattering of reflected dusty light, no matter its length or brightness.
The epigraph explains the entirety of this book’s reading experience, from the initial heads up, the purchase, the pre-reading When/Should I Read This? Toil, the actual work of reading it, to the completion/fugue that both empties and fills the reader at The End. It’s the ability to be immersed:
And but so you’ve heard of boredom. That the book is about boredom. How to manage boredom. Sure, but don’t stretch ‘This Is Water’ as a Hallmark-ishly thin mask over the entire novel. The speech is great, but the clean platitudes are easily misinterpreted. In The Pale King, they are etched in stone, dealt with at times in detail so penetratingly deep that there is no wiggle room, so to speak. Alas, Wigglers -- those human machines filing, sorting, and finding meaning in various IRS documents -- try to find a meaning in life. I know the way this is going to sound, but I felt each character was as if they were at the end of the line in string theory, sitting there wiggling, with no real way to describe fully what is going on. Indeed, something is happening, but we don’t know what it is (do you, Mr. Jones?).
A character in an early section in the book is looking out an airplane’s window at a car on the road, driving what seems to be in slow motion from that great height. Much of the book reads along that type of scaling. From above, down a microscope. Scaling, finding meaning at whichever length befits the occasion.
Several characters are fully-fleshed out, such that one could place them in any type of scene and know what’s likely to transpire. Think of Seinfeld’s characters: you get to know them so well that when you see them react to the current environment, it rings so true you feel as though you predicted what was going to happen.
A pale, marbled, stoic Jesuit substitute instructor offers kingly words to those about to take a graduate level accounting exam, “Enduring tedium over real time in a confined space is what real courage is.” He mentions heroism as the individuals’ benefact of dealt with banalities, the mundanity that is found in far more happenings than simply accounting. It’s life. Deal with it. The theatrical valor shown in venues of entertainment offers a fallacious understanding about existence. No audience. No applause.
Whole stretches of the novel are as comic and sad as ‘Infinite Jest,’ and, in some cases, funnier and sadder. The cruel irony is that you could laugh to death reading this.
Thus was the case when I dove back into D.F. Wallace’s ‘The Pale King.’ I re-read it after nearly the same length of time as had passed between Wallace’s death and its official published date.
“An Unfinished Novel” is a title-cased epitaph sandwiched between the book’s title and the author’s name on the title page. It’s sad, apt, and misleading. Sad for the obvious reasons; apt w/r/t descriptiveness; misleading in that it might dissuade a reader to plunk down hard-earned $ for something unfinished.
While the whole of the narrative surely would’ve been longer, is the upfront negation not dissimilar to defining shooting stars as unfinished? We see its, the star’s, partial arc and we revel in its beauty. We wonder where it will end up. But beautiful is the illumination of which we are able to view the star’s parabolic scattering of reflected dusty light, no matter its length or brightness.
The epigraph explains the entirety of this book’s reading experience, from the initial heads up, the purchase, the pre-reading When/Should I Read This? Toil, the actual work of reading it, to the completion/fugue that both empties and fills the reader at The End. It’s the ability to be immersed:
“We fill pre-existing forms and when we fill them we change them and are changed. --- Frank Bidart, ‘Borges and I’”
And but so you’ve heard of boredom. That the book is about boredom. How to manage boredom. Sure, but don’t stretch ‘This Is Water’ as a Hallmark-ishly thin mask over the entire novel. The speech is great, but the clean platitudes are easily misinterpreted. In The Pale King, they are etched in stone, dealt with at times in detail so penetratingly deep that there is no wiggle room, so to speak. Alas, Wigglers -- those human machines filing, sorting, and finding meaning in various IRS documents -- try to find a meaning in life. I know the way this is going to sound, but I felt each character was as if they were at the end of the line in string theory, sitting there wiggling, with no real way to describe fully what is going on. Indeed, something is happening, but we don’t know what it is (do you, Mr. Jones?).
A character in an early section in the book is looking out an airplane’s window at a car on the road, driving what seems to be in slow motion from that great height. Much of the book reads along that type of scaling. From above, down a microscope. Scaling, finding meaning at whichever length befits the occasion.
Several characters are fully-fleshed out, such that one could place them in any type of scene and know what’s likely to transpire. Think of Seinfeld’s characters: you get to know them so well that when you see them react to the current environment, it rings so true you feel as though you predicted what was going to happen.
A pale, marbled, stoic Jesuit substitute instructor offers kingly words to those about to take a graduate level accounting exam, “Enduring tedium over real time in a confined space is what real courage is.” He mentions heroism as the individuals’ benefact of dealt with banalities, the mundanity that is found in far more happenings than simply accounting. It’s life. Deal with it. The theatrical valor shown in venues of entertainment offers a fallacious understanding about existence. No audience. No applause.
Whole stretches of the novel are as comic and sad as ‘Infinite Jest,’ and, in some cases, funnier and sadder. The cruel irony is that you could laugh to death reading this.
Just couldn't get into it. It is technically an incomplete novel so you can't expect a full story here. Lots of chapters just seemed to be random entries.
challenging
funny
informative
inspiring
mysterious
reflective
sad
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
What it lacks in narrative, it more than makes up for in being a beautiful portrait of a variety of compelling characters painted in prose.
This is the most astonishing literary treatment of boredom I've ever encountered. That it is unfinished is, given the nature of its style and approach, a virtue.
I think the highest praise I can award "The Pale King" by David Foster Wallace is that it made me feel achingly sad. Not as a direct result of its content, but because all I want to see is a finished version of this book. As I was reading it and seeing the notes that alluded to a much fuller, more elaborate text, I could only mourn what might have been, written by someone who died too soon.
This text, however incomplete it may be, remains shockingly potent. While this does speak to Wallace's genius as a writer, it also speaks to the ability of David Pietsch, his editor, who deserves a huge portion of the praise this book has received. While I would have loved to see how Wallace bridges the gap between the more disparate ideas — maybe he already did, and I missed it? — this remains a lucid and relatively complete text on how we direct our attention, among other things. In some ways, it does feel like the counterweight to "Infinite Jest": "Infinite Jest" starts with separate ideas and takes a while to find its core, "The Pale King" starts with a core and then branches out. "Infinite Jest" is (sometimes) about entertainment, "The Pale King" is about boredom. "Infinite Jest," at times is basically transcribed slapstick, "The Pale King" is overall drier (though still pretty funny at times).
Their similarities, however, lie in being about what seems to be the only thing on Wallace's mind: how we interact with the world around us.
God, what I would give to see a finished version of this book. May he rest in peace.
All this David Foster Wallace stuff is making me sad. I'm gonna speedrun Cat's Cradle, then Crime and Punishment!
This text, however incomplete it may be, remains shockingly potent. While this does speak to Wallace's genius as a writer, it also speaks to the ability of David Pietsch, his editor, who deserves a huge portion of the praise this book has received. While I would have loved to see how Wallace bridges the gap between the more disparate ideas — maybe he already did, and I missed it? — this remains a lucid and relatively complete text on how we direct our attention, among other things. In some ways, it does feel like the counterweight to "Infinite Jest": "Infinite Jest" starts with separate ideas and takes a while to find its core, "The Pale King" starts with a core and then branches out. "Infinite Jest" is (sometimes) about entertainment, "The Pale King" is about boredom. "Infinite Jest," at times is basically transcribed slapstick, "The Pale King" is overall drier (though still pretty funny at times).
Their similarities, however, lie in being about what seems to be the only thing on Wallace's mind: how we interact with the world around us.
God, what I would give to see a finished version of this book. May he rest in peace.
All this David Foster Wallace stuff is making me sad. I'm gonna speedrun Cat's Cradle, then Crime and Punishment!
I haven't read any of DFW's other works, so I have nothing to compare to, but this really did seem like an unfinished novel, both in the structure/plot and the writing. At many times early on I wanted to just be finished already, but later in the book I found some of the sections/chapters to be much stronger. My personal favorite was Section 22, with Section 46 being my second favorite. Many of the sections were good little stories of their own, while others didn't do much for me or were downright annoying. I think the good sections and the strength towards the end of the book redeemed this story for me.
Maybe The Real Treasure Was the Taxes We Paid Along the Way
§19-> §22
§19-> §22
This is a largely philosophical but humoristic work in my opinion. The main themes of the said book is dullness and boredom. It would be a lie to say that it is boring. But it is dull indeed. There are some events which can put this book into fantasy or scifi genre. But those are of few. Thouhg despite those premises they never delivered. Probably because of the fact that author died before finishing the book. Or as I believe more likely that it is one of parallels to life. In your life you have a lot of premises which can lead you to many places, possibilities and opportunities. The list goes on and on. But practically you won't have much interesting going on in your life like in the life of others. Which makes the said book even more realistic and philosophical
challenging
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Complicated
50 chapters, maybe 15-20 are interesting. A real slog, some are straight up boring. There's not really a storyline to follow, each chapter is loosely associated in the same universe. This is not really a complete work by DFW.
I don’t think I can give a star rating to a 538-page rumination on boredom. Also, hard to tell what form it was really supposed to take? It’s really hard to judge an unfinished work. Much of it was oppressively boring, but then that was sort of the point, no? It was like meditation. It made me desperately wish DFW was around to weigh in on our current social media situation. The whole thing felt both completely removed from life and al