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Authors: David Foster Wallace
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nothing casual about a professional conversationalist and staff. We delve.
We obtain, and then some. Young sir.’
‘Okay, Alexandrian or Constantinian?’
‘You think we haven’t thoroughly researched your own connection with the whole current
intra-Provincial crisis in southern Québec?’
‘What intra-Provincial crisis in southern Québec? I thought you wanted to talk racy
mosaics.’
‘This is an upscale district of a vital North American metropolis, Hal. Standards
here are upscale, and high. A professional conversationalist flat-out full-bore
delves
. Do you for one moment think that a professional plier of the trade of conversation
would fail to probe beak-deep into your family’s sordid liaison with the pan-Canadian
Resistance’s notorious M. DuPlessis and his malevolent but allegedly irresistible
amanuensis-cum-operative, Luria P———?’
‘Listen, are you okay?’
‘
Do
you?’
‘I’m
ten
for Pete’s sake. I think maybe your appointment calendar’s squares got juggled. I’m
the potentially gifted ten-year-old tennis and lexical prodigy whose mom’s a continental
mover and shaker in the prescriptive-grammar academic world and whose dad’s a towering
figure in optical and avant-garde film circles and single-handedly founded the Enfield
Tennis Academy but drinks Wild Turkey at like 5:00 A.M. and pitches over sideways during dawn drills, on the courts, some days, and some
days presents with delusions about people’s mouths moving but nothing coming out.
I’m not even up to
J
yet, in the condensed
O.E.D.,
much less Québec or malevolent Lurias.’
‘… of the fact that photos of the aforementioned… liaison being leaked to
Der Spiegel
resulted in the bizarre deaths of both an Ottawan paparazzo and a Bavarian international-affairs
editor, of an alpenstock through the abdomen and an ill-swallowed cocktail onion,
respectively?’
‘I just finished
jew’s-ear
. I’m just starting on
jew’s-harp
and the general theory of oral lyres. I’ve never even
skied
.’
‘That you could dare to imagine we’d fail conversationally to countenance certain
weekly shall we say maternal… assignations with a certain unnamed bisexual bassoonist
in the Albertan Secret Guard’s tactical-bands unit?’
‘Gee, is that the exit over there I see?’
‘… that your blithe inattention to your own dear grammatical mother’s cavortings with
not one not two but over
thirty
Near Eastern medical attachés…?’
‘Would it be rude to tell you your mustache is askew?’
‘… that her introduction of esoteric mnemonic steroids, stereochemically not dissimilar
to your father’s own daily hypodermic “megavitamin” supplement derived from a certain
organic testosterone-regeneration compound distilled by the Jivaro shamen of the South-Central
L.A. basin, into your innocent-looking bowl of morning Ralston….’
‘As a matter of fact I’ll go ahead and tell you your whole face is kind of running,
sort of, if you want to check. Your nose is pointing at your lap.’
‘That your quote-unquote “complimentary” Dunlop widebody tennis racquets’ super-secret-formulaic
composition materials of high-modulus-graphite-reinforced polycarbonate polybutylene
resin are organochemically identical I say again
identical
to the gyroscopic balance sensor and
mise-en-scène
appropriation card and priapistic-entertainment cartridge implanted in your very
own towering father’s anaplastic cerebrum after his cruel series of detoxifications
and convolution-smoothings and gastrectomy and prostatectomy and pancreatectomy and
phalluctomy…’
Tap tap. ‘SHULGSPAHH.’
‘… could possibly escape the combined investigative attention of…?’
‘And it strikes me I’ve definitely seen that argyle sweater-vest before. That’s Himself’s
special Interdependence-Day-celebratory-dinner argyle sweater-vest, that he makes
a point of never having cleaned. I know
We obtain, and then some. Young sir.’
‘Okay, Alexandrian or Constantinian?’
‘You think we haven’t thoroughly researched your own connection with the whole current
intra-Provincial crisis in southern Québec?’
‘What intra-Provincial crisis in southern Québec? I thought you wanted to talk racy
mosaics.’
‘This is an upscale district of a vital North American metropolis, Hal. Standards
here are upscale, and high. A professional conversationalist flat-out full-bore
delves
. Do you for one moment think that a professional plier of the trade of conversation
would fail to probe beak-deep into your family’s sordid liaison with the pan-Canadian
Resistance’s notorious M. DuPlessis and his malevolent but allegedly irresistible
amanuensis-cum-operative, Luria P———?’
‘Listen, are you okay?’
‘
Do
you?’
‘I’m
ten
for Pete’s sake. I think maybe your appointment calendar’s squares got juggled. I’m
the potentially gifted ten-year-old tennis and lexical prodigy whose mom’s a continental
mover and shaker in the prescriptive-grammar academic world and whose dad’s a towering
figure in optical and avant-garde film circles and single-handedly founded the Enfield
Tennis Academy but drinks Wild Turkey at like 5:00 A.M. and pitches over sideways during dawn drills, on the courts, some days, and some
days presents with delusions about people’s mouths moving but nothing coming out.
I’m not even up to
J
yet, in the condensed
O.E.D.,
much less Québec or malevolent Lurias.’
‘… of the fact that photos of the aforementioned… liaison being leaked to
Der Spiegel
resulted in the bizarre deaths of both an Ottawan paparazzo and a Bavarian international-affairs
editor, of an alpenstock through the abdomen and an ill-swallowed cocktail onion,
respectively?’
‘I just finished
jew’s-ear
. I’m just starting on
jew’s-harp
and the general theory of oral lyres. I’ve never even
skied
.’
‘That you could dare to imagine we’d fail conversationally to countenance certain
weekly shall we say maternal… assignations with a certain unnamed bisexual bassoonist
in the Albertan Secret Guard’s tactical-bands unit?’
‘Gee, is that the exit over there I see?’
‘… that your blithe inattention to your own dear grammatical mother’s cavortings with
not one not two but over
thirty
Near Eastern medical attachés…?’
‘Would it be rude to tell you your mustache is askew?’
‘… that her introduction of esoteric mnemonic steroids, stereochemically not dissimilar
to your father’s own daily hypodermic “megavitamin” supplement derived from a certain
organic testosterone-regeneration compound distilled by the Jivaro shamen of the South-Central
L.A. basin, into your innocent-looking bowl of morning Ralston….’
‘As a matter of fact I’ll go ahead and tell you your whole face is kind of running,
sort of, if you want to check. Your nose is pointing at your lap.’
‘That your quote-unquote “complimentary” Dunlop widebody tennis racquets’ super-secret-formulaic
composition materials of high-modulus-graphite-reinforced polycarbonate polybutylene
resin are organochemically identical I say again
identical
to the gyroscopic balance sensor and
mise-en-scène
appropriation card and priapistic-entertainment cartridge implanted in your very
own towering father’s anaplastic cerebrum after his cruel series of detoxifications
and convolution-smoothings and gastrectomy and prostatectomy and pancreatectomy and
phalluctomy…’
Tap tap. ‘SHULGSPAHH.’
‘… could possibly escape the combined investigative attention of…?’
‘And it strikes me I’ve definitely seen that argyle sweater-vest before. That’s Himself’s
special Interdependence-Day-celebratory-dinner argyle sweater-vest, that he makes
a point of never having cleaned. I know
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