The reality of David Foster Wallace’s life is minimized, if not quite evaded, by what the screenwriter and director omit or massage to keep The End of the Tour on a predictable narrative arc and a comfortable, mostly comic plane.
In the rush to get to the bottom of our own obscure or banal questions, it’s easy to ignore what these predictive searches really are: a kind of social cipher, an anthology of digital anxieties, a collective dreaming.
I never felt comfortable in groups of kids that I was told were “like me,” born disabled. Like Dolezal, I insisted that what you could see of my body was contrary to who I actually was.
By merely wandering, the dérivist frustrates the spatial logic of capitalism, in the process discovering new currents, fissures, and vortices of possibility within a deeply familiar space.