A TLS reviewer of Will Self’s recent Liver compares Self’s work with that of the late David Foster Wallace: “He shared with Self a willingness to experiment with genre, pastische and several other acutely artificial literary devices, as well as a sense of the grotesque, a liking for long words and a commitment to explore the particular miseries of a sharply draw present (including addiction). But he [Wallace] struggled (and the struggle makes his work difficult to read sometimes, which Self’s, for all the long words, generally isn’t) to get beyond his cleverness and make something truthful and humane. He wrote about loathesome people with what reads a lot like love.”
I haven’t read enough of Wallace to endorse that sentiment, but it’s exactly write on Self: He writes about loathesome people whom he loathes.
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