Infinite Perfectionism

David Foster Wallace was an extraordinary writer. In an era when many believed America was dumbing down, Wallace produced books like Infinite Jest and Girl With Curious Hair which actually challenged readers to think beyond the moment and to look within themselves. It's no exaggeration to say I was truly saddened by the news of his suicide in 2008.

Wallace, after all, didn't seem like a typical literary giant to me. There was a real warmth and empathy to his words. His works were avant garde and difficult to follow, but they weren't icy or cynical like those of so many “great minds.” Whether he was writing of addiction to drugs or addiction to television, the man seemed to actually care about his readers and the world they existed in. How many other acclaimed authors could the same be said of?

Still, a writer is much more than he or she leaves on the page and Wallace was no exception. Soon after his death word arrived of a lifelong battle with severe depression. It was a battle that included stays in several facilities and countless prescription medications. It was also a battle that included something many of us view as a virtue – perfectionism.

Let's face it. We admire perfectionists, those who toil and toil and toil until things are just-exactly-right. Oftentimes, we forget to recognize the fine line between caring about one's work and obsessing over it. It's a line Wallace, brilliant though he was, couldn't (or wouldn't) acknowledge.

For Wallace was weighed down by his perfectionism. Rather than cutting portions of his novel Infinite Jest for his editor, he added page after page of footnotes, so that nothing important would be missed by the reader. His final, unfinished novel, The Pale King, consumed him to the point that he made sure the completed portions were in order just before he took his own life. Most jarring, however, is the fact that Wallace altered the medication that had helped him for years at least in part because he believed it was starting to harm the quality of his work.

Of course, we all have a bit of perfectionist in us. Our exacting standards may not lead us to tragedy, but they do carry consequences. How much family time do we lose because we desire to make the good work we do that much better? How much time, energy and emotion do we waste trying to master the careers, hobbies and sports we are already quite proficient in?

Not that we shouldn't always do our best at whatever we choose to engage in. Hard work is clearly a virtue to be promoted. What we must keep in mind, though, is that there's a difference between industry and compulsion and that one is as harmful as the other is admirable.

If only Wallace had taken note.