I'm Going to Have to Cut you Off

I'm going to have to cut you off, I fear.

It started with the most noble of intentions.   Something about when I was in Spain reading that if you read a novel, it will make your brain a better brain or something like that.   And of course, everyone wants a better brain.   So I select a novel to read.  I put away the science fiction and want to engage in a serious work of art.   Why not start with the best of the past decade or so:  "Infinite Jest?"

I check the book out at the library and dig in.  The snow falls.   Nothing else to do.   At first blush, the novel does not disappoint.   Its all its cracked up to be.  And more.   A veritable tour de force.   Almost too good for my own good.   Of course, in the back of me mind creeps in the knowledge that the author killed himself.   And was chronically depressed.  Mr. Foster Wallace, so brilliant.   Able to create these wonderful vignettes.  But where did it all lead?   More to the point, is it helpful for me to delve into this brilliant albeit warped mind?  Will a glimpse into madness trigger something in me?  Or am I just being paranoid?

It goes like this.   If you are an alcoholic, why have alcohol around in your fridge, just temping you to be consumed?   In my case, what's with all the Chateau Neuf de Pape and Toro's in the basement, under the stairs (where the pistol used to be before I put in the car).   Why keep all the crap laying around?  

Then you read about Mr. Wallace's chilling representation of the pot addict.   And all the elaborate self deceptions, justifications, and rituals of the addictive personality.  A hundred times more realized down to the insects on the shelf.

But lets digress for a moment. Humans are not rocks.  They are not islands unto themselves. We are profoundly affected by our environment.  If you keep pornography laying around to look at, it will rub off on you.   I promise.   For the better or worse, that's up to you.  The point is, it will change you.   If you sleep with dogs, you get fleas.   If you sleep with four dogs, you will get puppies.   Right Sarabi?

So, where does this all leave us?   Should I keep reading all this brilliant madness Mr. Foster Wallace? Where did it all lead you?   Should I keep you downstairs like my wine?   Or should I just return you to the library and go back to reading science fiction?  And zen books.   Elihu would never commit suicide.   I think Mr. Wallace, I'm going to have to cut you off. 

Supposedly, this was Hemmingway's favorite table in his favorite bar in Madrid.