Beyond the Pale

Ο Kechagiar με γλίτωσε από την προσπάθεια συστηματοποίησης των σκέψεών μου για το The Pale King του David Foster Wallace, γράφοντας (στα αγγλικά) ένα ιστολογικό έπος το οποίο θα ολοκληρωθεί σε επτά μέρη. Ιτ γκόουζ γουιδάουτ σέινγκ, είναι φάνκι, γκρούβι, φασιονίστα, πιντσονίστα. Το διαβάζετε εδώ. 

You hold the beautiful cream-white volume in your hands and look at your co-passengers. Has anyone noticed that you are carrying the book around wrapped in a protective cardboard sheath? You touch the cover with its fragments of David Foster Wallace’s tax returns threaded by his widow’s hands through a King of Clubs. You look around. Where is the writer? It felt like he was near. Here is the book and here is the train. Here is the unchanging darkness beyond the safety glass windows and here is the false train riding next to yours, with identical passengers, although they are quite different: They do not exist. Sadly, the writer is unaccounted for. He has gone missing, probably forever. Now his books can roam free. No more interviews, no more profiles. Just criticism. Every word has been written and every sentence has been set into place. Every connection made and unmade, every page corrected and published. Everything about the books is now in the past. Only reading lies in the future, and even that will fade, as fewer and fewer numbers of readers read him, until at some point the writer will get forgotten, the bones of his stories covered by the sediment of cultural upheaval, language evolution, and fickle fashion. 

But for now, something of him remains. You open the book and read the first page. (εδώ η συνέχεια)