I am very well aware that I am looking at Wallace through the lens of one man--the writer of the New Yorker article, who possesses his own biases.
His portrayal of Wallace's life showed much insularity and navel-gazing, as well as personal trials and suffering. You had the impression that he was part of the American writing machine, with the right American writing friends, that he was moving along with the right gigs, but otherwise unhappy, unfulfilled, unconnected. Is any of this true? Hell if I know.
You can't blame a man for shooting high and falling short. How often is a person born that will end up not writing an epic novel for the ages? Every second?
Wallace's desire to accomplish something that he hadn't the ability to do, is something many of us can relate to. Except we have even less chance than he.
Wallace had a beautiful basketball athleticism, let's say. But that was not enough. He wanted the beautiful game. He wanted the shot, the court-vision, the anticipation, the ball-handling, the ability to inspire and move his teammates. Hell, he was in the NBA, most would be happy just with that. But as I said before, some are cursed to wish they were Jordan when they are only Paxton. To sit next to Jordan, to feel his sweat dripping on you, but to be a million miles away.
I've never read a single book by Pynchon, Roth, Updike, Delillo, or Wallace. Honestly, even after reading about them in these articles, and a review here or there, I have little desire to do so. I revulse at the thought of tiring myself that way.
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