Αφίσες για όλη τη φιλμογραφία του Τζέιμς Ινκαντένζα από το Infinite Jest και άλλα γουαλασικά καλούδια, εδώ. Στο μεταξύ, φαίνεται ότι ένας από τους χαρακτήρες του νέου μυθιστορήματος του Τζέφρι Ευγενίδη, The Marriage Plot (κυκλοφορεί τον Οκτώβριο – ένα απόσπασμα εδώ, και οι πρώτες αράδες του βιβλίου εδώ) είναι βασισμένος στον Γουάλας.
I pulled one of my wife’s dresses off a hanger in her closet and pulled it down over the length of a floor lamp. I pulled a hat of hers down over the lampshade. I glued a pair of shoes down the base of the floor lamp and waited for the glue to dry. I plugged the floor lamp into an outlet in the living room, turned the floor lamp on, and her head lit up.
The dress was full length and it had long sleeves. I held onto the cuff one long sleeve of her dress with my palm and fingers and tucked the cuff of the other long sleeve into my waistband at the small of my back. I placed my other hand behind the long stand of the floor lamp just above where the base of her spine would have been if the floor lamp were my wife.
I waited for the music to start playing inside my head. I pulled the floor lamp up against my body and felt the heat from the light on my face. I tipped the floor lamp back with my one arm and leaned over with her. I stood back up and spun the floor lamp away from me along the edge of its round base and along the length of my arm and the long sleeve of her dress. The base of the floor lamp made a scraping noise against the hardwood floor and so did my shoes.
I could see myself dancing with her on the living room walls. I could see the shadows of us dancing on the walls all the way around the living room.
Το βιβλίο κυκλοφορεί και με τον τίτλο How Much of Us There Was (το Us είναι ξανακοιταγμένη εκδοχή του). Το σάουντρακ του βιβλίου όπως το κατέγραψε ο συγγραφέας στο Largehearted Boy και μια συνέντευξη. Στα ελληνικά κυκλοφορεί το Dear Everybody (Αγαπητοί όλοι, μετάφραση: Παλμύρα Ισμυρίδου, εκδόσεις Οκτώ, 2010).
I believe, even though there may be many exceptions, that at a certain moment a story chooses you and won’t leave you in peace. Fortunately, that’s not so important—the form, the structure, always belong to you, and without form or structure there’s no book, or at least in most cases that’s what happens. Let’s say the story and the plot arise by chance, that they belong to the realm of chance, that is, chaos, disorder, or to a realm that’s in constant turmoil (some call it apocalyptic). Form, on the other hand, is a choice made through intelligence, cunning and silence, all the weapons used by Ulysses in his battle against death. Form seeks an artifice; the story seeks a precipice. Or to use a metaphor from the Chilean countryside (a bad one, as you’ll see): It’s not that I don’t like precipices, but I prefer to see them from a bridge.