John Horgan at his own website:
Like a pre-teen prodigy performing for grown-ups, Wallace is too show-offy, intent on dazzling us. Thomas Pynchon’s prose has this same adolescent “Look at me!” quality, which is why I could never get through Gravity’s Rainbow. Wallace also reminds me of J.D. Salinger, who sneerily divides characters into the cool, who get it, and the uncool, who don’t.
Wallace’s characters remain caricatures even after we get to know their most intimate, excruciating secrets. Recounting the antics of a transvestite spy or cracking-smoking hooker, Wallace smirks. He seems to see all humans, even those who suffer—and his fictional folk suffer terribly—as goofy, deserving of mockery.
Not all looooong novels by geniuses get on my nerves. I’ve not only read War & Peace and Ulysses, I’ve reread them. How do they keep me enthralled? Tolstoy’s prose, even in translation, is transparent. Joyce’s isn’t, at first, then it is. Both authors recede into the background as they magically whisk you into Russia in the early 19th century and Dublin in the early 20th. These fictional realms and their inhabitants are uncannily real, three-dimensional.
More here.
Enjoying the content on 3QD? Help keep us going by donating now.