Discovering David Foster Wallace

I've come to his work late, but I'm looking forward to reading it all.

There's a bookshop in my favourite part of the city in which I live in which marauds an unshaven man with dishevelled hair. I know nothing about this man, but he is the tool with which I measure the aptness and the good sense of my taste in literature. Usually, he is found to be in one of two positions: either lying on the sofa looking angry, or deliberately disordering the books on his shelves (he owns the shop, and he's entirely right to think that people will stay longer if his books aren't alphabetised. It's because of wisdom like this that I use him as my tool). It was from this man that I bought the only book I own by David Foster Wallace - and when I bought it his features reassembled themselves from a look of slight fury into a look of slight misery. This is what he does when he thinks you have made an excellent choice of book. I promptly congratulated myself.

Wallace is a much talked about author. He is also an author whom I hadn't read, and knew nothing about. I began reading Oblivion, which I discovered was the last work of fiction to be published before his death, and was suspicious. To my closed and inattentive ears, Wallace is one of those writers who inspires an untrustworthy intensity of love in otherwise trustworthy people. It's not that I didn't want to like Wallace, or even that I crassly sought to disagree with those who liked him for no reason other than the contrariness; but many admirable minds laud him as one of the greatest novelists of his "generation", and I distrust both praise and references to generations. Imagine the delight and the shame I felt when I discovered that Wallace wrote a mockery of the hagiographic use of "generation" too - in his short story "Death Is Not the End" he writes a parodic biography of a dead poet which "two separate American generations have hailed as the voice of their generation".

By virtue of almost nothing other than my own ignorance, I suppose I'm ripe to fall into the second generation of Wallace admirers (which is exactly what I am - I decided a couple of days ago whilst sitting on the Northern line). The forthcoming, posthumously published novel The Pale King is not a book that I, unlike Wallace's legion of fans, have been "eagerly awaiting". It's not even a book I knew existed until recently - but in reading two early reviews (in Time and GQ), I've learnt the odd thing about Wallace that has made me abandon my scepticism. What would Wallace think about the consolidation of my respect growing from the textual peripheries of others, rather than from his own writing? I suppose he'd look sad and shrug, but then, I haven't even finished Oblivion yet, so I wouldn't know. In any case, I should qualify myself - my respect has been consolidated not by these reviews, but by the extracts of Wallace's writing embedded in them.

Still, assertions like Lev Grossman's (in the Time review) that Wallace's remaining notebooks are "chewed over and bent and practically charred by the intellectual energy Wallace expended in them" are symptomatic of the kind of mythologising that good dead authors find themselves subject to. That one of these notebooks had a picture of one of the Rugrats on the front is testament of how, to put it tritely, paper was paper to Wallace. I'm not sure he'd want his manuscripts monumentalized - tempting as that might be. "He switched pens practically every paragraph" Grossman breathlessly notes. Well, he probably didn't. And if he did, that makes him silly, not a genius.

His essay collection, A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again begins quietly with a distancing "supposedly" and escalates into an absolution of a "never again" - which sounds both a threat and a loss, like a child covering disappointment with disobedience. It makes me wonder, of the so many people who have waited for The Pale King, how many would really have the ability to be disappointed with this last slice of Wallace. John Jeremiah Sullivan articulates a feeling that any reader who has fallen in love with an author has felt: "I was surprised to have the wind sucked out of me by the thought ... that there would be no more Wallace books". Perhaps this is the best thing about my slowly dissolving ignorance: I've got a lot of Wallace books still left to read.

Jonathan Derbyshire reviews "The Pale King" in this week's issue of the New Statesman

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No More Girls and Boys shows the small things that shape children

The BBC2 TV series is validating and dispiriting at the same time. 

Here’s a story we like to tell ourselves. Once upon a time, we were sexist, but then feminism happened and now we’re not sexist anymore. But boys and girls carry on being different because they are different. Male brains are systematising and female brains are empathising, says Simon Baron-Cohen. Boys like blue and girls like pink, say the toy aisles. Men have a “drive for status”, and women have “openness directed towards feelings and aesthetics rather than ideas,” says that bloody Google engineer in his ten-page evo-psych anti-diversity manifesto. And if we are going to live happily ever after, we just have to learn to accept it.

Here are some other stories. “I think boys are cleverer than girls… because they get into president easily don’t they?” “I would describe a girl as being pretty, lipstick, dresses, lovehearts. If a woman has a child, the men have to go to work and earn some money.” “Men are better at being in charge.” “Men are better because they’re stronger and they’ve got more jobs.” All these are things said by year three pupils at Lanesend primary school in the Isle of Wight, both girls and boys, who by the age of seven have thoroughly imbibed the idea that their sex is their fate. All of them are about to take part in an experiment designed to unpick that belief.

That experiment is actually a BBC 2 documentary called No More Boys and Girls: Can Our Kids Go Gender Free? Presenter Dr Javid Abdelmoneim finds that the boys are more likely to overestimate their abilities; the girls, to underestimate theirs. Girls are underscoring on confidence; boys, on empathy. Abdelmoneim isn’t buying that this is all down to hormones or different physiques. At seven, boys and girls are evenly matched for strength, and will be until the testosterone surge of puberty has boys building muscle mass. There are no fixed differences in their developing brains. Genitals aside, they’re simply kids. He wants to see whether teaching the kids differently will lead to them thinking differently.

First, the classroom environment has to change so sex is no longer the first division. Signs are put up affirming that boys and girls are sensitive, girls and boys are strong. The “girls’ cupboard” and “boys’ cupboard” where the children put their coats are repainted as one big gender-neutral wardrobe. Stereotyped books are swapped out for ones about adventurous girls and kind boys. The children have their career expectations shaken up by meeting a male ballet dancer, a female mechanic. And their likeable teacher, Mr Andre, has to change too: he’s trained out of his habitual reference to the girls as “love” and the boys as “mate”, and introduced to a lottery system to break his habit of picking boys first.

It’s the smallness of these things that’s really telling of the hugeness of the problem. Individually, they seem so trivial as to barely seem worth fixing, and so ingrained that trying to fix them takes constant vigilance (Mr Andre’s slips into “love” and “mate” are recorded on a wall chart). No wonder sexism seems to be one of those things that everyone’s against but no one sees as their problem to fix. The head, for example, speaks regretfully of “quite biased views about what boys are expected to do and what girls are expected to do.” But somehow this has never translated into the kind of interventions Abdelmoneim is trying.

Does it work? That’s the cliffhanger for episode two, but the first part suggests some pretty dramatic results. When the children take part in a test-your-strength contest, the difference between expectation and performance lead to tears: a girl who happily cries “I didn’t think I could do it!” about her maximum score, and a boy who predicted himself a 10 but throws himself down on the ground in an angry tantrum when he fails to get a single point. How much stronger might girls be if they didn’t absorb the myth of their own weakness and opt out of physical activity early? How much more resilient would boys be if they weren’t holding themselves up to an unrealistic standard?

We won’t know the answer to that unless adults are able to stop telling the same dull old gender stories to children. In one scene, the documentary reenacts the famous Baby X experiments, showing how adults direct infant play down strictly sex-stereotyped lines, pressing dolls on the baby in pink, and robots and shape sorters on the one in blue. But given the opportunity to be themselves first rather than their sex, the children of Laneseed seem to thrive. In fact, the only reform they chafe at are gender neutral toilets. (“The girls were like, ‘Oh they [the boys] come out with their bits dangling out and they don’t wash their hands,’” Abdelmoneim told the Mail.)

Watching No More Boys and Girls is a strange experience, validating and dispiriting at the same time. Yes, you see the evidence of sexism in action that’s usually hidden in plain sight. You also see that there’s so much of it, it’s hard to know where to begin in countering it. Maybe we should start like this: stop insulting children by pretending their understanding of gender is hardwired at birth, and take some adult responsibility for the world we’ve put them in. 

No More Boys And Girls: Can Our Kids Go Gender Free? starts on BBC2 at 9pm on Wednesday.

Sarah Ditum is a journalist who writes regularly for the Guardian, New Statesman and others. Her website is here.