David Foster Wallace,
Little expressionless animalsMy mind reels. This neat little story has it all: a broad interplay of theme and time, the classic Foster-Wallatian tropes of media and multiple psychological crises, a media king-pin message of absolute surface and uncanny mystery, with deep trauma and precise-definition fanatics. By turns devastatingly funny and poignant, it’s more like a mini-novel condensed into short story form: the multiple streams are established, the oneiric parallels weave in and out (trauma/mediation, surface/autism, sexual definition / power roles / insecurity), all with a defined but finally absent, cataclysmic denouement. There is power in its brevity and breadth: a complete efficiency of narrative means. It gently deflates the mechanics of television to reveal the withered psychological husk of the viewing/entertainment mindset. It is consumingly immersive and it moves irrevocably. It suggests an ongoing, deepening time-scale as well as complete unpredictability. And ultimately, the multiple perspectives arouse genuine pathos. This is modern fictive
precision personified.
