The Broom of the System

The story centers around Lenore Beadsman, a slightly neurotic young woman with a lackluster job by choice, who is in a relationship with her boss (editor of a literary magazine who is in therapy for various reasons himself), looking for her grandmother (who suddenly disappeared from her nursing home), dealing with her rich CEO dad (who resents her for rejecting the family privilege), and coping with a pet bird that abruptly decided to start talking. It's not surprising that there are just bunches to unpack here: Wittgenstein is present is a big way (meaning = function drives much of the dialogue and thought of the characters). There are stories within stories, various modes and methods of presenting the main story, and strange show more characters doing strange things. It's smart and funny (although Wallace's brand of humor may not be for everyone) and weird in a good way. Think Philip K. Dick if PKD were much less self-serious. show less

The existing reviews for this novel here are negative, so I am writing this as a corrective to those. I think this is a very good novel. It is fiercely intelligent and hilarious.

What is so awe inspiring about this book is that it is David Foster Wallace's first novel. It struck me in the same places as Thomas Pynchon's first novel, V. Holy fuck this is good. Holy fuck this is smart. Holy fuck this is funny. I want to read more more more by this author. Etcetera.

But so Wittgenstein, hygiene anxiety, the Great Ohio Desert, seeking the infinitude of self, a cold-blooded-great-grandmother, masculinity, telephone insanity, college, and madness are all here. I enjoy DFW's command of dialogue most of all. He puts in the silences and question show more marks that occur in speech but never make it to the written page.

"..."

If you like writers who play and experiment with language, who are not afraid to express their intelligence rather than hide it, read this and read trembling (er, laughing).

When you are done, perhaps you will feel the same craving in your stomach that I felt (and still feel): I want to swallow all of Foster Wallace's writings. I want them inside of me. I want to submerge myself in his universe, even knowing how that universe swallowed and destroyed him. show less

When I enjoyed this book, I REALLY enjoyed it. It's so hilarious, inventive, and clever. When I disliked this book (which happened to occur in the rather late stages of the book) I really hated it. It just felt like David Foster Wallace had been stroking your head like you were some sort of house cat and you were sort of enjoying it and then out of nowhere he started walloping you really hard (and you didn't expect such a nerdy guy to be so strong but he was a good tennis player, or something) and weren't you supposed to be a cat? OW! OW!!! STOP IT!

This book is great, and I understand why D.F.W. ended it the way he did. Still...

I could very theoretically start listing the shelves where this touches upon, but I'd rather just say that this is a first novel most cocaine heads listening to the middle days of heavy metal would want to write if they were hopelessly in love with with the craziest *roughage* post-modern deconstructionists willing to push all narratives into wonderfully feathered *roughage* prose that's more absurd mixed wth frame within frame within frame *roughage* stories that are linked so very vividly with one another while requiring such heavy *roughage* to digest simply because we're fed the literary equivalent of eight steaks.

Yes. That's right. Eight Steaks. And don't you fucking forget the desert.

This novel is not the grotesquely fat show more monstrosity that wants not only to consume and replace the universe, as in [b:Infinite Jest|6759|Infinite Jest|David Foster Wallace|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1446876799s/6759.jpg|3271542], but we do see the much smaller man that Wallace's later book becomes, as it engorges himself, (and us, by proxy,) in record time.

I'm sure I'll incur the wrath of many IJ heads by saying that I absolutely love this book in comparison to that other whale. The frankly told mini-tales were some of the coolest and craziest and fucked up stories, ever. Imagine good mini-novels told as a quick narrative in bed after or before sex, then imagine getting your mind fucked. This is the kind of thing you can expect in this little novel, and it happens on many different levels. Can I say how tickled I was by all the almost meta interpretations of turning your idea of self into a fully three dimensional character? This coming from a psychologist to one of the main characters? Well, shit, you have no idea, how many times I was tickled by similar awesome bits.

It's very smart, the tale is actually rather linear, although there is NO CLIMAX. Not really. There's a headlong rush of words speeding up and speeding up in a Wittgenstein coitus that ends in the ultimate of interruptus, almost as if we were hit over the head by a big broom.

I DO kinda wish I could be a little surprised by that, but it's par for course. :) Wonderful and smart characters, truly oddball situations and conversations, delightfully feathered prose that links all these disparate parts together in a paint splattered mosaic of trash.

Seriously brilliant. Every page is enjoyable. We get the sense of a grand plan shaping. But of course, this is DFW. He is the king of the fuck you. :) I did mention that he's rather heavy metal in his outlook on life, didn't I? lol We all know what he said when someone paid him the compliment by calling him brilliant, right? He said just that. Fuck You. Classic. :) show less

I'm three books into the [[David Foster Wallace]] adventure, one book of short stories and [Infinite Jest] and feel tongue-tied and inadequate. The sheer inventive playfulness (or is it playful inventiveness?) on display, the compassion for suffering, and the wisdom..... is once again stunning. As I listened, I kept thinking, "Where did he come UP with That idea?" over and over again. The novel qua novel, his first, is arguably a bit of a mess and Wallace laughingly exits mid-word at the end, but the plot such as it is, centers around the (sexual) 'awakening' of Lenore Beadsman, daughter of a Cleveland baby-food tycoon (and mean bastard), presently involved with her boss, an eccentric and insecure publisher and considerably older man show more (40's to her 20's) named Rick Vigorous. Her father is about to introduce a new babyfood that gets infants talking early when Lenore's domineering great-grandma Lenore disappears from the nursing home with the formula --- which event has a domino effect from operation of the publisher's switchboard to a strange transformation of Vlad the Impaler, Lenore's cockatiel (who clearly has imbibed the baby food) who then finds himself on TV as an evangelist spokesbird .... and...... and.... you get the idea. There is no central theme either, not really. For awhile there is this hint that all of the events are part of a 'conspiracy' to awaken Lenore into adulthood, into herself and maybe so, only in the sense that it is cosmically 'time' for that to happen to her, so you think, hmmm maybe there is this almost feminist element (in the softer sense of the word) to bring a young woman into full ownership of her own life and body, to emerge out of the vague innocent sweetness of the 'kore' figure into the knowing adult woman.... but then there is more than a little of religious imagery as well, a strong implication (by way of Vlad) of the connection between Life, lived to the raunchy sexy hilt, and Life lived in 'partnership' with God - with immanence, being present, and being involved with others..... Wallace was smart and thoughtful and it's unwise to dismiss anything he puts into his work without careful examination. Which means, eventually, if I live long enough rereading all of his work, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. The four and a half is to leave room at the top for the five that is [Infinite Jest].

I thought the narrator of the audiobook was superb. His Vlad was GREAT! show less

arrovellante e sconclusionato… anche se assolutamente leggibile.
sarà che a me le cose surreali non piacciono tanto…
e neanche i formaggi coi buchi, tipo l'emmenthal… (anche se, ogni volta che lo mangio, voglio proprio la parte coi buchi, che mi pare più buona, chissà perché..... ok, non c’entra col libro… ma forse un po’ sì!).

e comunque… senza dubbio la sensazione su questo d.f. wallace è di uno con un sacco di potenziale… ma proprio tanto! …e un gran cervello pieno di cose.
solo che è come se l’avesse messo dentro un frullatore e poi avviato senza mettere il tappo... ecco: è la forza centrifuga che lo frega!
ed io, purtroppo, temo di essere una lettrice troppo ignorante per capirlo ed apprezzarlo.

In his first novel, DFW is so desperate to impress that he can't rein it in, even a little bit. Some of his worst habits are in abundance here, such as the tendency to give us needlessly detailed descriptions of irrelevancies, such as the PBX. Although some might defend DFW as doing so for comedic effect, it seriously disrupts the flow of the narrative pieces, undermining them as a result. He probably thought he was being a real rebel and throwing our expectations back in our faces, but it does seem more like a creative writing class exercise and less like a fully realized novel.

In some sections, the shadow of Pynchon looms large; think "Crying of Lot 49" or the Whole Sick Crew sections of "V." (the latter book is a much more mature show more work by an author also producing work in his early 20's).

It's way too long and gets tedious at points. Unfortunately, DFW has absorbed too much Pynchon, right down to the characters who represent certain constructs rather than the creation of believable human beings. I don't know if part of the post-modernist agenda includes the rejection of elements of realism or modernism, but it ultimately seems like fast food, even if the writing is above average. show less