sh*t
On David Wallace, Arundhati Roy and other inspirations.
After couple of casual watches that left me with a bittersweet aftertaste, resolute to determine what endears the movie to me, I saw it for a third time — James Ponsoldt’s The End of Tour. The movie is a chamber piece that captures the brief period of interactions between Rolling Stone journalist David Lipsky (Jesse Eisenberg) and novelist David Foster Wallace (Jason Segel). Lipsky is interviewing Wallace over the course of a few days, while the latter is finishing up a book tour for his The Infinite Jest. Together they attend readings, shop for grocery and watch television, while Lipsky scrounges their conversations for insights into Wallace’s genius.
A piece for the Rolling Stone was in fact only a pseudo motivation for Lipsky, who, from his reading of The Infinite Jest, saw in Wallace a greater intellect, perhaps a reflection of the brilliance he wishes he’d possess. Lipsky saves a copy of his own low profile novel, The Art Fair, for Wallace, although uncertain if he’d ever dare to present it. He does — at the end of their time together, perhaps at having discovered a rather candid man, whose words, actions, addictions are only ordinary, almost to the point Lipsky doubted the genuineness of the unassuming nature of Wallace. He discovered a recluse, living with his dogs, and harboring an inexplicable fascination with Alanis Morissette and downright American addictions like television and junk food.
Of everything that transpires between Lipsky and Wallace, perhaps, the most endearing subtext for me was Lipsky’s fascination with Wallace and his work. A favorite moment from the movie, rather bland but elegant, was when Lipsky, while reading the book, before he set out to meet Wallace, almost unwittingly utters the word “shit”, clearly taken aback by its ingenuity— a scene that was quite reminiscent of Jesse Eisenberg’s another portrayal, Mark Zuckerberg’s reaction, when bedazzled by a hyper Sean Parker (The Social Network). Lipsky had turned into a fan, and from his eventual time with Wallace, it was clear that he aspired to be as good as the latter. This aspiration was all too relatable for me, for nothing fuels the drive to create as much as a brilliant piece of work by somebody else.
Fandom is perhaps also an expression of the creative drive, though much less evolved. When you marvel at the work of a creator, be it an artist, a musician, a writer or a developer, quite often there’s a part of you that wishes you were as good. I envy numerous creators whose work I admire and enjoy everyday. Who wouldn’t have wished to jam away on a guitar, watching a skillful musician shred on the instrument? Or paint, beholding a beautiful piece of art work? Or write, watching your favorite characters brought to life by sharp-witted screenwriters? Lipsky felt inept besides Wallace, and so do I, everyday, besides a multitude of people in my immediate surrounding, who have mastered their trades.
Over the years, I’ve read, seen or heard so many creative pieces that kindled the desire in me to write, paint, code or play, that all too often translates into half baked efforts until inspiration fizzles out. I particularly recall reading Arundhati Roy’s God of Small Things, which, I believe, largely nurtured my desire to write. I was awed by how deftly Roy had managed to put to words, the various tones and shades I was subtly aware of, growing up in her part of the world. Or on a more relevant and recent note, I recall of the time when I envied how elegantly this particular article, on merits of pursuing a hard science over generalist skills, captured ideas that I had been churning around incoherently in my head for quite some time then.
Watching The End of Tour was precisely the reason I got around to writing down these thoughts. The movie, in itself, was certainly one such creative inspiration. I assume it carries the same artistic approach to storytelling as Wallace’s book, The Infinite Jest. I hope I am not being presumptuous when I draw that parallel, for I have to sheepishly admit I haven’t read the book yet. But I believe I reserve the right to do so, based on this slice out of a review of Wallace’s book that goes thus:
“…Some writers specialize in the away-from-home experience — they’ve safaried, eaten across Italy, covered a war. Wallace offered his alive self cutting through our sleepy aquarium — our standard TV, stores, political campaigns. Writers who can do this, like Salinger and Fitzgerald, forge an unbreakable bond with readers…”
The movie, Salinger’s works and perhaps Wallace’s too, as I perceive, reveal the ineffable multitudes of humanness in the ordinary and everyday — both its beauty and poignancy. And they do so rather effortlessly — and often artlessly — for these works are largely devoid of convoluted metaphors, but are rather collections of craft-fully handpicked moments.
It would be incorrect to say that I am awfully low skilled at drawing, for that would imply the existence of some amount of skill. But nevertheless, I have outrageous pieces drawn all over my notebooks and my phone, for I believe I am an artist in my own shoddy niche, for art is about anything but conformity. Randomly browsing GitHub checking out clever projects and crafty hacks, dawns in me a feeling of insufficiency and throws me into a frenzy to learn and build. So powerful is the contagious influence of creativity, that I have even gotten around to trying my hand at music, my association with which, so far, as many have rightly pointed out, should be criminal. But I try to persist.
One of the greater gratifications in life is certainly stretching yourself mentally and physically, as evidenced by the greatest of human pursuits. Creative quests are such mentally and often physically demanding exercises, that attempt to pluck out certain pieces from your cumulative experiences and inspirations. Your work needn’t be good enough for everyone, or anyone. I believe it should be only about collecting your thoughts and emotions when inspiration strikes. My hope is that I surround myself with makers who inspire, like Wallace did for Lipsky. And that I abandon any lethargy to pursue creation — creation that a funny thought, some yellow lights, or 3am musings might inspire.
