The Background Problem: Should we separate fact from fiction?

By Chiara Hampton

Walking into the world of a novel blind has a quality of excitement. You’ve not yet been influenced by reviews, academic contexts, the particularities of the author’s biography. Perhaps it was the cover that drew you in or the recommendation of a friend. In any case, nothing exists in your mind but the text itself. You note the writing style before beginning to untangle the first threads of an unfamiliar story. By the time that story concludes, you’ve created an impression both personal and isolated.

This more or less describes my experience reading David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest for the first time. Back then I knew precisely two facts about this novel: that it was my English teacher’s favourite book and that it was long. Thus I dove in without context and proceeded to explore a world of meandering prose, footnotes in fiction, characters who appear for a scene and disappear just as quickly, delightfully bizarre plotlines, strangely empathetic reflections. This is not to say that the novel revealed no flaws upon first reading. Several characters, both minor and central, express heinous and disquieting views. Simultaneously, this occurs within a text which acts as an indictment of the culture it depicts, leaving no character unscathed within its own critiques. Overall, I walked away impressed by Wallace’s unique use of the English language and excited to have discovered a new form of literature. Then I decided to research him.

Without going into excessive detail, Wallace’s depiction in media as a ‘troubled’ genius is an understatement. In life, he was an irascible and abusive individual, stalking poet Mary Karr and even attempting to push her out of a moving vehicle. I’ll take this moment to assure you that this article is not simply an ode to my bitterness (although the salt is still there). The issue of separation (or lack thereof) between creator and work is a common debate, but one worth having, especially for writers and publishers. Our favourite texts inevitably create standards to which we compare other works. They are integral to our inspiration (prospective projects we may find endearing, writing techniques or themes we may seek to incorporate in our own work). The context of these influences is critical.

Perspective on the issue (in my view, at least) comes down to the elements of a text one values most. Is it form or ethos that counts? Can one appreciate the unusual structure of a novel while acknowledging the folly of its creator? There also remains the issue of the effects of our support of authors. Should we draw distinctions between the dead and the living? Wallace is no longer with us, therefore continuing to buy his books can in no way ‘enable’ his behaviours. The same is true for many classical authors who would fall short of contemporary standards by epic proportions. In contrast, one could persuasively argue that continuing to discuss these works implicitly justifies ethically questionable stances. Continuing to praise Wallace for his prose while persistently ignoring the damages of his abuse seems only to add insult to injury (Mary Karr’s story, despite the evidence of her abuse, was reduced to a measly two lines by Wallace’s biographer).

As an author or a publisher, the writers you support or integrate into your work merit careful consideration. Do you avoid authors with dark personal lives and free yourself of the shadows they may cast? Or do you simply accept the literary influence of their work while recognizing underlying issues?