Reading The New Yorker’s Fiction: “All That,” by David Foster Wallace.
human beings have a well-established track record for making and enjoying art, including the fiction appearing weekly in The New Yorker. “All That” makes an important claim about this circumstance. Even though it is silly to believe that a cement truck, toy or otherwise, has magical properties, it is important to believe such a thing, or things like it. Artwork, which humans so greatly enjoy, springs almost exclusively from a person’s willingness to give some time and effort to an absurd conceit.
Most fiction testifies to this belief merely by existing, but overtly concerns itself with relationships or a weird person the author spotted on the subway. “All That” is different. Its sole purpose is to remind the reader that humans have to hold on to convictions that are absurd, imaginative, and beautiful — but materially silly. I agree, if only because I’m not sure what outcome we’re shooting for, besides the freedom to display our mind’s odd wanderings, when we appoint Treasury secretaries and sell apples.
