Literary Cross Fit
An ode to DFW and his majestic, painstakingly long run-ons
Reading DFW is cross fit for your literary faculties, categorically different experience than opening any other book, a strenuous activity whereby you sweat through his bombastic verbosity that incites an intellectual inferiority complex like watching that guy deadlift twice your weight next to you but you don’t have time to be distracted because you’re already struggling through his labyrinthine syntax and digressive footnotes that illicit interest but are like a weighted vest on the marathon that is the 537 word run-on sentence you’re trudging along comprised of outlandishly random and egregiously specific details that any editor with half a mind would nix for the sake of the slightest semblance of brevity but that somehow DFW manages to make it all work in his uniquely convoluted, ineffable style that’s difficult to articulate why exactly it does indeed work but feels intuitively true like asking a child why he wants to play with another kid’s toy – he doesn’t know, but under the surface, there’s a complex web of memetic forces at play, that’s less to do with the toy and everything to do with our ravenous desire to mimic what we see around us which begs the question can we even desire anything independently or are we just little puppets jerked around by the strings of social imitation, but then as you’re teetering on the brink of this philosophical abyss, ready to fall into a profoundly new intellectual understanding, the child farts, and forgets about the toy as swiftly as DFW snaps you back in an abrupt, almost intrusive, manner reminding you of the exhaustive workout you’re now wobbling through but with a smirk on your face after the off-color, unexpected transition he pulls off with artful nonchalance which if you couldn’t tell by now, I’m endeavoring to emulate, albeit poorly, yet nonetheless am finding it to be a useful, even delectably enjoyable practice, to liberate myself from the tyranny of the habituated mind that dictates how one should supposedly structure a good piece by intentionally not letting the usual filters apply – sort of like purposefully putting cookies in the back of the cabinet to self-impose limitations you know are in your best interests, except instead of taming your gluttonous sugar addiction you’re relegating your editorial precision, in other words giving-a-fuck-ness, far back in the dusty recesses your mind cabinet to free up mental bandwidth for the unrestrained torrent of words to cascade onto the page which if you’re still reading these ramblings then thank your for sticking with me, your stamina is commendable, but seriously, try this out, start writing until you feel like a manic raving madman or your hand cramps up both of which are ever so present for me right now so I’ll mercifully cut myself off.
And go back to reading Oblivion.
Thought of the Day
It happened again… (full thread + original post)
I just picked up a new seasoning to add to the recipe that is my writing, albeit it will be used quite sparingly, I applaud you for the literary complex pomposity that is this piece, the ode to a man who can say a little by saying too much, yet gets you thinking in ways that are unexpected.