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David Foster Wallace: The Last Interview Expanded with New Introduction: and Other Conversations (The Last Interview Series), by David Foster Wallace

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About the Author

David Foster Wallace (1962-2008) was an award-winning novelist, short-story writer, and essayist. He is best known for his 1996 novel Infinite Jest. Frequently referred to as the voice of his generation, he won a multitude of prizes and accolades before committing suicide in 2008.Editor David Streitfeld is a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist who has written extensively on books, business, and technology for the Washington Post, the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times. He is currently a columnist for the New York Times.

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David Foster Wallace: The Last Interview Expanded with New IntroductionINTRODUCTION DAVID STREITFELDI was David Foster Wallace’s worst friend. He would send me letters and I wouldn’t answer them. He would send works in progress with forlorn notes. “You’re under no obligation to read or to pretend you’ve read the enclosed,” he wrote on one piece. I didn’t. That particular manuscript was, I see now, “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction,” which he was revising for a book. It is one of the most influential literary essays of the last thirty years.One day Wallace sent me a chain letter. People under the age of forty probably have no idea what this is. In essence, it was paper going viral. A chain letter included an original letter promising good luck to everyone who kept the chain going, copies of letters from every subsequent recipient, and finally a note from the friend or acquaintance who got it most recently, exhorting you to keep the good luck flowing by sending the whole thing on to five more friends.Chain letters were made possible by the invention of the photocopier and were rendered superfluous by the internet, which could copy and forward things effortlessly. Wallace sent me his in 1996, right as email was beginning to take off. It might have been the last chain letter ever. When I opened the thick envelope and saw what it contained, I groaned.“This letter originated in the Netherlands, and has been passed around the world at least 20 times,” the original letter at the bottom of the stack proclaimed. “The one who breaks the chain will have bad luck. This is not a joke.”Wallace got his packet from his best friend and onetime collaborator, Mark Costello, a lawyer who was sent it by another lawyer. “I don’t normally circulate these things,” Costello wrote Wallace in his cover note, “but this chain letter is just too funny—there’s five senior federal judges here, one United States congressmen, a bunch of DOJ prosecutors and lawyers, lawyers, lawyers. The idea of lawyers hedging their bets like this is fitting somehow.”—You can see how all this might have appealed to the novelist hailed as the one true heir of Thomas Pynchon, whose The Crying of Lot 49 is about a secret postal system. Wallace was so heavily influenced by Pynchon he tended to get cranky when reviewers brought it up, but he always loved Crying. Chain letters were like a Pynchon novel come to life.The only message in Wallace’s cover note was in Latin, which was typical of his correspondence. He once sent me a card with only two words on it, both in Russian. To this day, I have no idea what it says. The chain letter said: “Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit.” Thanks to Google, I now know this means: “No man is wise at all hours.” In other words, “I need all the good luck I can get so I’m taking this seriously.” Which is how Wallace felt pretty much all the time.Me too. But I also felt like I was eleven again, being told to do something ridiculous. I broke the chain, letting the envelope rest on my desk for days, then weeks, until finally I threw it in a box and stowed the box out of sight. Trouble with a woman soon followed, the bad luck that was now my lot in life. Another of Wallace’s five recipients was Jonathan Franzen, whose career was at such a low point he was reduced to writing articles blaming the wicked world for neglecting novels as serious as his. Franzen’s next novel got him on the cover of Time magazine and sold a million copies, so I think we can be pretty sure he put in his time at the Xerox machine.I think about fate—another name for luck—and Wallace all the time. There’s a line by the German literary critic Walter Benjamin about how a man who dies at the age of thirty-five will always be remembered as a man doomed to die at the age of thirty-five. Benjamin, who committed suicide because he could not escape from Nazi-occupied Europe, anticipated his own destiny, and Wallace’s as well. Wallace’s suicide in 2008 at the age of forty-six is often seen as the unhappy ending he was always rushing toward. Everything before that was just an inescapable step along the way.I can’t accept such a gloomy verdict. His masterpiece, Infinite Jest, is about many things—tennis, drug addiction, terrorism, the search for a videotape so entertaining it kills you—but it is also about reasons to break free of the fate to which you’ve been assigned. It is about reasons to live.Appropriately enough, the novel’s own vitality has been remarkable. It looms over the other American novels published in the 1990s, and has yielded both a cult and an industry. Wallace is much studied by academics and much obsessed over by a certain kind of young man. There has been a biography and a biographical movie starring Jesse Eisenberg and Jason Segel and a David Foster Wallace Reader that has the heft of Infinite Jest. Signed copies of his books—talismans of his genius—change hands for impressive sums. His tennis writings have been collected by the canon-anointing Library of America. The internet is littered with shrines to his skill and his abundant hair. His unfinished third novel, The Pale King, was a runner-up for the 2012 Pulitzer. Even stories about him win awards, like the Rolling Stone post-mortem that yielded the book that became the movie.When I knew Wallace best there was none of this record of dominance and achievement. He was a very smart, very tortured guy who wrote a very long novel that many people, even literary people, didn’t want to read. He may have dreamed of immortality, all writers do, but he didn’t expect it. Nothing was obvious except his talent.It’s a tricky thing, literary immortality. Nearly all fiction reflects its time and remains bound by it. These novels and stories jam the shelves of used bookstores until even the most sluggish proprietors send them away for composting. The books that remain alive, by writers as various as Jane Austen, E. M. Forster, Kurt Vonnegut, James Baldwin, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, tackle the meaning of life for a new era, looking for an answer to the persistent question: How must we live?—In 1993, Wallace defined his goal as “writing about younger people trying to find themselves in the face not only of conform-or-die parents, but also this bright seductive electromagnetic system all around them that tells them that they don’t have to.” Parts of Infinite Jest read as if he were trying to reassure himself, striving to transmute the life-affirming clichés of Alcoholics Anonymous into something more sophisticated but equally effective. Here’s Hal the tennis whiz dispensing advice to “feral prodigies” in one of the novel’s many bravura set-pieces:“Be a Student of the Game. Like most clichés of sport, this is profound. You can be shaped or you can be broken. There is not much in between. Try to learn. Be coachable. Try to learn from everybody, especially those who fail…How promising you are as a Student of the Game is a function of what you can pay attention to without running away. Nets and fences can be mirrors. And between the nets and fences, opponents are also mirrors. This is why the whole thing is scary.”Scary. It was a word that cropped up often in my conversations with Wallace. That and sad. We were scared because we were sad and sad because we were scared, the two fused together in a helix. It was his diagnosis of American culture, and certainly of himself. He was on to something. As I write this, the stock market is higher than it has ever been and unemployment is at a modern-day low, and yet contemporary discourse is choked with dread. Our sour politics amplifies this but does not explain it.Wallace blamed the technology that surrounds us and numbs us. I always used to wonder why he was so bent out of shape about television, so entranced by something so stupid. Just turn the damn thing off, I would think. But he anticipated the internet, which is always on, devilishly seductive and wholly consuming. We have found the Infinite Jest videotape, and are inside it.At the end, Wallace couldn’t write, couldn’t solve the impossibly difficult challenge he had set for himself with The Pale King of making something compelling out of something numbingly dull, couldn’t exist without the drug that had permitted him to keep going all the years, but could no longer exist with it either. Try to learn to let what is unfair teach you, Hal advises the feral prodigies. It is a very hard lesson. The pale king came for Wallace and he hung himself in his suburban Los Angeles house, trying in the way of all suicides to obliterate not only his body but everything that went with it—his recent and happy marriage, his teaching, his success, all the work he was going to do in the future. He did save his unfinished manuscript, however. He cared about writing more than anything.His suicide may not have been preordained, but that is when he became really famous. He called the culture sad and then his sad story was taken up by it, all the secrets and struggles he had tried so long to hide becoming raw material for the entertainment/industrial complex, which rolls over everything in its path. That’s a David Foster Wallace story all right.

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Product details

Series: The Last Interview Series

Paperback: 224 pages

Publisher: Melville House; Expanded edition (August 28, 2018)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1612197418

ISBN-13: 978-1612197418

Product Dimensions:

5.5 x 0.6 x 8.3 inches

Shipping Weight: 6.4 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)

Average Customer Review:

4.6 out of 5 stars

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Amazon Best Sellers Rank:

#871,429 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)

This update of the 2012 “Last Interview” series featuring David Foster Wallace adds new interviews, but most importantly, includes an utterly crucial insight into the personae of DFW by longtime Wallace friend and peer David Streitfeld. With this, it then becomes the unrequited highlight of an otherwise ordinary compilation of interviews interspersed throughout DFW’s post Infinite Jest career.Delivered as a compendium of previously released assignations with Wallace from various interviewers, this assemblage adds hauntingly little to the DFW personae…yes, we hear additional deep thoughts about the importance of fiction writing and thus “how it is to be a (explicative) human being,” and we also get additional insight into the creation of his masterpiece Infinite Jest, but there is really little beyond that. Most mildly interested Wallace fans have already been exposed to these thoughts, often time and again. And, egregiously, the very “last” interview, published in 2008 (the year in which Wallace committed suicide) is only five pages long, with only a tiny tidbit of interesting Wallace insight to grasp:WSJ: Have you changed your mind about any of the points that you made in the book?WALLACE: In the best political tradition, I reject the premise of your question. The essay quite specifically concerns a couple of weeks in February, 2000, and the situation of both McCain [and] national politics in those couple of weeks. It is heavily context dependent. And that context now seems a long, long, long time ago. McCain himself has obviously changed; his flipperoos and weaselings on Roe v. Wade, campaign finance, the toxicity of lobbyists, Iraq timetables, etc. are just some of what makes him a less interesting, more depressing political figure now – for me at least. It’s all understandable, of course – he’s the GOP nominee now, not an insurgent maverick. Understandable, but depressing. As part of the essay talks about, there’s an enormous difference between running an insurgent Hail-Mary-type longshot campaign and being a viable candidate, and there are some deep, really rather troubling questions about whether serious honor and candor and principle remain possible for someone who wants to really maybe win.And aside from the Streifeld introduction, it is only one other powerful insight, just the kind you’d expect from an intellect like Wallace’s, one who’d only recently jumped into the political arena and learned the many nuances of thoughtful political commentary, that resonates from this collection. This is from the 2003 David Eggers “The Believer” interview “To Try Hard To Exercise Patience, Politeness, And Imagination”:BLVR: You covered John McCain for the 2000 election, and that piece, which was so fresh and honest and unvarnished, was made into a kind of book-on-demand. Do you keep up with politics, and if so, are there plans to do any more political writing? And do you have any comment on why, it seems, there are fewer young novelists around who also comment directly on the political world? Should novelists be offering their opinions on national affairs, politics, our current and future wars?WALLACE: The reason why doing political writing is so hard right now is probably also the reason why more young (am I included in the range of this predicate anymore?) fiction writers ought to be doing it. As of 2003, the rhetoric of the enterprise is (explicative). 95 percent of political commentary, whether spoken or written, is now polluted by the very politics it’s supposed to be about. Meaning it’s become totally ideological and reductive: The writer/speaker has certain political convictions or affiliations, and proceeds to filter all reality and spin all assertions according to those convictions and loyalties. Everybody’s pissed off and exasperated and impervious to argument from any other side. Opposing viewpoints are not just incorrect but contemptible, corrupt, evil. Conservative thinkers are balder about this kind of attitude: Limbaugh, Hannity, that horrific O’Reilly person. Coulter, Kristol, etc. But the Left’s been infected, too. Have you read this new Al Franken book? Parts of it are funny, but it’s totally venomous (like, what possible response can rightist pundits have to Franken’s broadsides but further rage and return-venom?). Or see also e.g. Lapham’s latest HARPER’S columns, or most of the stuff in the NATION, or even ROLLING STONE. It’s all become like Zinn and Chomsky but without the immense bodies of hard data these older guys use to back up their screeds. There’s no more complex, messy, community-wide argument (or “dialogue”); political discourse is now a formulaic matter of preaching to one’s own choir and demonizing the opposition. Everything’s relentlessly black-and-whitened. Since the truth is way, way more gray and complicated than any one ideology can capture, the whole thing seems to me not just stupid but stupefying. Watching O’Reilly v. Franken is watching bloodsport. How can any of this possibly help me, the average citizen, deliberate about whom to choose to decide my country’s macroeconomic policy, or how even to convince for myself , what that policy’s outlines should be, or how to minimize the chances of North Korea nuking the DMZ and pulling us into a ghastly foreign war, or how to balance domestic security concerns with civil liberties? Questions like these are all massively complicated, and much of the complication is not sexy, and well over 90 percent of political commentary now simply abets the uncomplicatedly sexy delusion that one side is Right and Just and the other Wrong and Dangerous.My own belief, perhaps starry-eyed, is that since fictionists or literary-type writers are supposed to have some special interest in empathy, in trying to imagine what it’s like to be the other guy, they might have some useful part to play in a political conversation that’s having the problems ours is. Failing that, maybe at least we can help elevate some professional political journalists who are 1) polite, and 2) willing to entertain the possibility that intelligent, well-meaning people can disagree, and 3) able to countenance the fact that some problems are simply beyond the ability of a single ideology to represent accurately.Certainly an outlook that is exceedingly balanced, far-reaching and, in my opinion, politically brilliant, for the time that he is speaking about and even for today. I’d challenge that an analysis like this is nowhere to be found on the political journalistic front today and it’s interesting to note that these opinions were garnered only after a couple of years of involvement…indeed DFW involved and immersed himself into the political quagmire just to write the McCain piece…it was only his intellect and personal acumen that led to observations such as these.A collection that is less than stunning, The Last Interview nonetheless contains some subtending insights for the serious David Wallace fan. And that needs to be the leading point with this work…it is for the SERIOUS DFW fan; those looking for an introduction to his work definitely need to look elsewhere.

Penetrating insights into DFW's mind and heart.

This selection of DFW writings and interviews is without question delightful and telling (and definitely worth a re-read in the #MeToo era!) but Mr. Streitfeld's intro is filled with many interesting/touching/hilarious anecdotes/personal insights about Mr. Wallace (as well as a re-assessment of DFW's work in these, our modern times) that you simply can't find in other books.I won't spoil your delight in finding a copy of this book and reading David's intro yourself. Especially page xxiii!

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