73
He means that the "backyard-barbecue and three-martini" mother lode of American realism mined by an earlier generation of writers--writers from Updike country--simpy fails to connect with him, either as writer or reader.
Rather, Wallace is a descendant of that subversive, anarchic branch of American literature ("Nabokov's children," he calls them) that began veering off the main stem in the 1960s: novelists such as Thomas Pynchon (Gravity's Rainbow), John Barth (The Sot-Weed Factor), Robert Coover (The Public Burning), William Gaddis (J R, The Recognitions), and--Wallace's favorite--Don DeLillo (White Noise, Libra).
He means that the "backyard-barbecue and three-martini" mother lode of American realism mined by an earlier generation of writers--writers from Updike country--simpy fails to connect with him, either as writer or reader.
Rather, Wallace is a descendant of that subversive, anarchic branch of American literature ("Nabokov's children," he calls them) that began veering off the main stem in the 1960s: novelists such as Thomas Pynchon (Gravity's Rainbow), John Barth (The Sot-Weed Factor), Robert Coover (The Public Burning), William Gaddis (J R, The Recognitions), and--Wallace's favorite--Don DeLillo (White Noise, Libra).
79
"I'm interested in religion, only because certain churches seem to be a place where things can be talked about. What does your life mean? Do you believe in something bigger than you? Is there something about gratifying every single desire you have that is harmful? [...]"
"I'm interested in religion, only because certain churches seem to be a place where things can be talked about. What does your life mean? Do you believe in something bigger than you? Is there something about gratifying every single desire you have that is harmful? [...]"
129
[...] Probably all jobs are the same and they're filled with horrible boredom and despair and quiet little bits of fulfillment that are very hard to tell anyone about. That's just a guess.
[...] Probably all jobs are the same and they're filled with horrible boredom and despair and quiet little bits of fulfillment that are very hard to tell anyone about. That's just a guess.