Monomial algebras Book

SECOND READING UPDATE

Decided to bump this up to 5 stars for the simple reason that I've now read it twice and generally any book I read more than once is one I call an outstanding read. More than that basic reasoning though, I really enjoy the playful language, the many puns, the clever juvenalia of the symbolism, and the gently mocking metafictional stories-within-stories. Also I've got a vested personal interest in anything pineal gland (Hail Eris!) which gland features significantly here as a jokey MacGuffin.

Beyond the fun, of which there is plenty, Wallace raises significant questions regarding language and whether and how it is always/only a proxy for experience. The many crises of Self vs Other, sometimes funny and sometimes distressing, are at the root of essentially all our real-world human interactions. The advanced-level tricks Wallace pulls off with everything are really impressive: sentences are cut off but we can still extrapolate their meaning, speakers aren't identified but we can still determine who is who enough to follow the conversations, holes are left in the plot but we can fill them in for ourselves... The form of the novel both models and becomes its function, which is really cool and a lot harder to pull off than would seem at first glance.

So, 5 stars - highly recommended to linguistic geeks and word nerds.

*

It feels weird calling DFW playful, but it's very hard not to get caught up in his linguistic acrobatics here. This is really good writing. It's a strange but effervescent balance of casual formality and rule-following goofiness. It also feels quite a lot sharper than Infinite Jest and The Pale King - like Wallace was writing with the intent to entertain first, edify second. Early enough in his craft that he was still eager to please, perhaps? Hadn't fully come into that pretentious image of the intellectually burdened artiste? Maybe.

This is an iffy time to be exploring DFW's wider works, here in the context of the #MeToo movement as allegations against him rise to the surface. Wallace is dead, so attacking or defending him specifically feels half-hearted; there are bigger (living) fish to fry. But Pandora's box is open and there's no escaping the questions that now darken his legacy: Can I still enjoy his writing? Large swathes of it speak to me personally. What does that mean? Should I worry about my own character? Because honestly I do worry about his, now. What does it say about me if I still read him, but don't like him, but do relate to him? Is it all as simple as "take what you want and leave the rest?"

I believe great art prompts deep reflection, and I have found that in reading this man's books.

4 stars, and certainly verging towards 5, but surpassed by his later work.