“All of What I Could Teach You Provided Enough Time to Learn It"

There is so much I don’t know and even more that other people do know and wrongfully withhold. While reading David Foster Wallace’s essay, “Some Remarks on Kafka’s Funniness from Which Probably Not Enough Has Been Removed,”[1] it dawned on me that I was reading criticism on an author whose work I’ve barely read,[2] which is a ridiculous endeavor that is sort of like being inspired to build a house after hanging drywall once as a favor to a friend, and reading the directions[3] after tiling the roof and sealing all the windows. But this uselessness is nothing new to a guy who prides himself on his ability to name the authors of nearly every book he’s never opened.[4] I planned on giving a short list here, exampling this skill; however, my mind drew a definite blank while attempting to do…[5] Thus, I normally wouldn’t be disturbed by the scarcity of my own understanding of things,[6] but the whole Kafka incident reminded me of a day in one of my professor’s offices, surrounded by way too many books I’ve never read let alone heard of,[7] while he discussed Salinger’s Babe Gladwaller story, “A Boy in France.” I don’t remember what his exact argument was because I was distracted by two facts: 1) that he knew who Babe Gladwaller is, and 2) that there are three[8] stories concerning Babe Gladwaller.[9] What’s more is upon his mentioning of Babe’s full name, it dawned on me that I had spelled the character’s last name incorrectly while “analyzing” him in my comprehensive exam[10] essay. The books were no longer surrounding me. They were wiggling free, coming off the shelves and smacking me upside my head like that scene in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast in which all the possessions in the castle attack the intruders who have come for the beast’s hide. He’s read Salinger, I thought. Also, And not just any old Salinger, underpublished Salinger. He’s probably read Kafka, too. And David Foster Wallace. The part about Kafka and Wallace I didn’t ponder until la[11]ter that night. Walking out of his office though, down the loud, cement staircase, I stayed optimistic. Don’t be discouraged, I told myself. There are truths you can offer people, facts with which you can broaden the minds of others, knowledge you can bestow upon the ignorant. For example:

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[1] For the record, this essay was above my comprehension in some ways. Take the title of the essay as an example. I know humor is in it, but I’m still searching out where and why the humor exactly is. I think I have an idea, but I’m not confident enough to share. Maybe the second footnote is – I don’t believe me one bit right now – an explanation of why the essay confuses me.  

[2] Outside of “The Metamorphosis” (a piece hazy in my mind, and I am, to add to this, not entirely sure if the title is quotation marked or italicized because I can’t remember if it’s a novella or a long short story) I’ve also read the first page of Amerika.

[3] If housebuilding directions even exist.

[4] Giving others the impression that he is well read, knowledgeable, intimidating, capable of working in a bookstore, worthy of sweeping at least one remarkably tailored category on Jeopardy! so long as he works the buzzer correctly, etc.

[5] THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MARK TWAIN WRITTEN BY MARK TWAIN!

[6] I define “things” here as anything capable of being thought of: words, history (American, world, or otherwise), technology, how to rebuild any kind of engine, 13 X 14, the mating habits of Loggerhead sea turtles, etc.

[7] Shamelessly, and without glasses, I squinted at the names on the spines and tried to commit each to memory for future reference.

[8] Not one.

[9] “The Last Day of the Last Furlough” and “The Stranger” being the other two (Wikipedia succeeds where memory falters).

[10] An exam I did not pass, not even close, and, as a result, must retake, thus keeping me in my MA program for one more semester only, pass or fail.

[11] As I finished writing the thought actually.