David Foster Wallace:
Extinction
Wallace is the strange prose, as taken from a machine that had the mission link sentences to each other and create an appearance of rationality. The arguments of the stories contained in this volume look more like a joke of a staggering complexity. Wallace spun very long sentences, with clauses, and clauses within clauses, and so bring together three levels of narration in the same paragraph. You read a Wallace and leaves with the impression of having talked to anyone who inhabits another planet, another galaxy, one of those worlds imagined by Borges in which the language defines the personality, culture and even the physical appearance of the speaker, or writer in this case. Wallace ended up committing suicide, thus ending a life marked by the disease of depression. Reading it, one does not see a marked tendency for self-destruction, but rather a departure from real life, as if the writer Wallace considers himself out of the world that he had to live until he grew tired of it. His characters have a deliberate superficiality. There are profound. But it is clear that Wallace's draw because he wants. It is also clear that he plays with the reader, which takes you from one side to another one of those universes as surgical outlines reluctantly but also dipping into a disquieting unease. It is rare, moreover, that a narrator as this has been brought to Spain, land of writers of the third where the banal, the irrelevant supplant the place of true art. What Wallace is pure art, that of a person who did not care to please his readers, but waited patiently for someone to approach her books and have the courage, tenacity and strength of mind to engage in these gloomy territories of American daily life. Atrocity stories, vulgar or directly unreal. But all the personal mark of someone who dare to label me as a genius.
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