In Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace describes one of the ancillary characters as a man “whose fixed smile has the impermanent quality of something stamped into uncooperative material.” First, a stagnant feature – a smile screwed-in with sheer will and a desire for social uniformity, only to be screwed back out upon a change in circumstance. Second, uncooperative material – like trying to pleat silk with the intention of permanence but without the knowledge of attaining permanence. I re-discovered this description after having grown bored of watching the snow make its way into piles on surfaces both equipped and unequipped to handle the volume. Wedged in the book was also an overdue bill from a 2016 walk-in therapy session at the NYU Student Health center. A bill that I had used to blot maroon lipstick a number of times before sticking it back into the book as if representing a continuation of Wallace’s jest. I don’t remember if I ever paid that bill, and a part of me finds that ironic. Maybe because in that moment, the ‘infinite’ in Infinite Jest extended far past the heads and bodies on the page, reaching and migrating into my life as if to ridicule that one representation of my personal world. I think if Wallace were still alive, he’d find that ironic too.
In The Crazed, Ha Jin writes about a female character who “like a man, drank black tea and smoked cheap cigarettes.” I wonder what kind of man he’d describe me as, knowing that there was a point in life when I too smoked cheap cigarettes and drank black coffee stronger and more bitter than the darkest of teas. I wonder if he had respect for women like us, or if he found us coarse and crude and unlovable. It’s interesting to think about how authors allow their perceptions of the world to bleed onto the page with an overwhelming transparency. I’m sure Ha Jin knew what he felt about the state of callous female behavior, but I wonder if he regretted reading the words he so readily painted onto paper after watching male tolerance weaken with collective age. It makes me think about how much of what we communicate stays relevant as the world shifts into new eras, eras where momentary trends carry more weight than the burdens of our historical perceptions.
In The Fall (2006), the main character narrates a story with an “Indian who whenever anxious stroked his brow.” A give-away, a nervous tick, a subconscious compulsion, picked up by an omnipresent and almost voyeuristic narrator. It makes me think about how my body plays out its inner anxieties like a movie for others to consume, those with an eye for detail and a keen yet misplaced interest. Habits that exist in reflexive shadows until they’re snatched and tossed into an exhibition displaying the quirks of human nature. Mine with a plain silver plaque and a strikingly straightforward description, “Pakistani who whenever anxious runs her fingers over her fingernails,” or “moves a singular foot in small circles until a bystander asks what she’s doing.” Or maybe “crosses her right leg over her left leg and tucks her right foot behind her left calve – the tighter the bind, the higher the anxiety.” I like to think that I’m identified by the largest and most obvious sections of my identity, but generalizations tend to grow ancient with haste. What’s left of a human is the debris, the little actions and reactions that set us apart. Though I’m unsure how my leg-binding finger-fumbling foot-circling qualities would represent me if I were to ever make an appearance in a similarly niche film.
There is an ocean of variation in how human characteristics are described in storytelling, all informed by endless perceptions and experiences and mechanisms that shape how receptive we are to details. Details that draw out distinctions and offer them a spotlight under which they grow and develop. Details that bring us together as we read and delve into their abundance, and separate us as we choose which ones to stand with in inconsistent solitude. I often feel like we only know ourselves through the stories we read, the stories we tell, and the stories we hear. In that way, stories while accessible to all are really only meant for a handful. And after what could solely be described as a spiritual journey through Infinite Jest, I think David Foster Wallace would agree.
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