Girl With Curious Hair
David Foster Wallace
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Remarkable, hilarious and unsettling re-imaginations of reality by "a dynamic writer of extraordinary talent " (Jennifer Levin, New York Times Book Review).
Girl with Curious Hair is replete with David Foster Wallace's remarkable and unsettling reimaginations of reality. From the eerily "real," almost holographic evocations of historical figures like Lyndon Johnson and overtelevised game-show hosts and late-night comedians to the title story, where terminal punk nihilism meets Young Republicanism, Wallace renders the incredible comprehensible, the bizarre normal, the absurd hilarious, the familiar strange.
Jack.” J.D. flicks the dice with a finger while DeHaven keeps his arm on the gearshift, between J.D. and the stuttered red oil light, his face under the happy face grim. The oil light’s red stutters when the car jounces. The sound of the gravel is unendurable. “But Jack is a complex man,” says J.D. Steelritter. “I’ve known at least three different historical Jack Lords, since I’ve been in this business. That was the first Jack Lord, up over paradise in a helicopter, firing blanks at underpaid
evidence of his own personal shortcomings as a person, not as anything about his commitment to me as a lover. And I guess I had so much invested in the relationship by then that I said OK that’s OK, and he stayed in Bloomington over a week, and we did everything together, and at night he made me feel wonderful, it could really be wonderful being close with him, and he said he was making me feel wonderful because he wanted to, not because he thought he had to. Then he went back to Boston and said
life. He smiled; he said ha ha; his eyes came utterly alive; he looked like a very large toy. Everyone seemed to be having a ball. I touched my ear and heard my husband thanking Ron. We talked and laughed for one or two minutes more about art and self-acceptance being inestimably more important than assets. The interview ended in a sort of explosion of good will. David Letterman made confetti out of a few of his body’s labels. I was frankly sorry it was over. Letterman smiled warmly at me as we
alumni on this LordAloft. They missed it. Children. The fly in every fucking machine’s perfect lubricant. DeHaven is looking over at J.D. and shrugging, checking his fat clipboard, shrugging with that what-are-you-gonna-do apathy he directs at every impediment. J.D. ponders. What is his son? Those Jews have a word for it, no? Schlemiel is the clumsy waiter who spills the scalding soup? Schlamazl is the totally innocent hapless guy who gets spilled on? Then J.D. Steelritter’s son is the customer
often pronounce liquid consonants at least as well as your average airport P.A. announcer. That their eyes aren’t any smaller or wickedly slanted than our own: they just have a type of uncircumcised eyelid that reveals slightly less total eye. The eyes in Mark’s healthy face appear vaguely oriental; they have that boxer-in-the-late-rounds puffiness, especially when he hasn’t slept. But he’s occidental as they come. He’s a third-generation-German Baltimore WASP, though lately converted, D.L. wrote