Little Simon was trickling. Down the path he went on the stones meant as steps. His legs were nimble and he was nimble. He himself was very nimble, he had always thought, and as he thought he picked the flower.

Little Simon put the stem of the flower in the pocket of his button shirt.

This button shirt was the same button shirt that his aunt Laverne had worn when she was a child. When she was a girl. And it fit about the same and it seemed hardly worn.

Even Little Simon could see into the distance.

Down in the distance in the direction that Little Simon was trickling he saw the small volcano.

A kind of volcano that little children make in science class, the kind that turn some into children who aspire to be full-time practicioner of science. A scientist.

No actual full-time practices were existent. That was simply an expression of

the people that Little Simon had been around...

Peter Whistle had been paragliding for some time now.

He was near the village and he looked with agony at his house, which had burned down a few days ago as a result of his own indiscretion. He had been having sex on the sly with the wife of the mayor and the mayor repaid the favor by burning down Peter’s house.

Peter had passed the mayor on the brick road as he walked back to his house after the sex and the mayor had been unable to control his delight over his successful revenge. Of course, Peter was wholly unaware of the revenge and he laughed too, and they went into the pub and both had some beers, got drunk, went outside, and looked with stupefaction at the plume that had been raised in the distance.

Peter thought about this little instance about as much as he could stand and then turned his glider towards the field where he would light.

*This article may contain spoilers.

There are people in Wallace’s writings who are able to levitate. It’s not clear to what extent they can levitate. Generally both those who are levitating and those about them are unaware of the levitation. And the levitating is very slight. Levitating only inches or millimeters most of the time.

The first time I noticed this was in The Pale King. Late in the book. The IRS worker Shane Drinnion. He levitates by being extremely focused outward, in the instance of the related story he is listening to the speaking of a fellow IRS worker, a strikingly beautiful woman who also has the habit of going on and on.

Another character who can levitate is not surprisingly Lyle from Infinite Jest. This fact seems to be entered on the sly on the part of the narrator. There is perhaps only one sentence that describes Lyle’s levitation. However, in the novel there...

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A grasshopper-like insect had landed on my hand. I looked at the bug’s tiny eyes, irises the circumference of a pin. I turned the bug towards me and the eyes looked forward at me, both cross-eyed and fierce. I turned the bug some more and the irises, they moved in response. They moved the other way so that the irises were still pointed at my face, my eyes. The bug was looking at my face or eyes and it occured to me that my eyes, being only a little larger than the bug, could be seen by the bug as two seperate entities that were seperate from my body; they were bugs themselves to the bug.

Another bug that later settled on my hand, it also gazed upon my eyes. The bug was most unusual. It had a sort of unicorn spike or horn upon its head and it had a flat face with the facial features of a flat-faced dog. The bug hoisted itself up to release a spike beneath its frame and I felt its point...

A dream that was the sand of an hourglass. The dream that slowly went somewhere. Do people believe that a day could ever end?

Ebb Maggle one morning became awake. His teeth needed brushing, he thought. The light in the small bathroom was soft and flattering and he admired his own soft features. Most of the time, Ebb was smitten by his own appearance, but that was mainly because he had made an effort to avoid any room in which the light did not enliven his own appearance.

Then he opened his wardrobe. Ebb Maggle was the most pear-shaped man that Ebb Maggle had ever seen and his wardrobe did reflect as much. In the mirror he tried on a suit that he had lifted from a man who had committed suicide by leaping off a bridge. The suit had fit him nicely and had suited him. The suit was pitch black and smooth with no tears, no misguided threads. He thought about his sister.

Ebb Maggle ate his...

Every morning, the same size little cups of coffee. Years this went on. His wife had made the coffee but he creamed it himself. Herman would drink the little coffee with creamer with his wife who also drank a little cup of coffee while reading bits of the newspaper, sometimes aloud. This was in the little side kitchen that was on the western side of their house.

Beyond the window the rising sun had made of the tree in their yard a sofly lit picture. The tree was a scene.

But so the wife of the man had begun a job that required her to travel and he suffered through his breakfast alone with both his coffee and his thoughts. Herman it would appear could not handle his own thoughts so clearly heard as his thoughts up till then had always been poured to him like hot water over grounds and through a filter. But now it was as though the filter had had gotten worn.

And so it began thusly. For...

The window was completely open.

The woman closed the window and yet could still not hear a sound outside the window. Again she opened the window and put a hand through it, snapped her fingers. And the fingers did snap; she heard the snapping.

The woman was not going insane. She just couldn’t hear certain things in certain places, such as the robin that had settled on a branch. This had never happened before, the not hearing. Could always hear everything she should. But then suddenly this. The woman couldn’t ignore her own thinking, but when a visitor arrived, a middle-aged man with black slickbacked hair, she declined to speak of the matter with him. Instead they spoke of, to her, trivial matters such as his impeding divorce and a rug that needed cleaning. Sometimes while they spoke in various rooms of the house she’d look toward a window or a door as if hoping once again to hear...

And then in the evening I removed the cork from the bottle, I looked in the mirror, I waved goodbye to the person who was standing behind me at an oblique angle who was also looking in or at the mirror and who was already drinking of the wine from the bottle, and then I turned back around.

But of course it wasn’t clear to the man I had waved to as to the intent of the wave, whether it meant goodbye or hello or some other kind of greeting he couldn’t decipher, nor could I reckon as to why I had I made the wave goodbye, since the party had not even really started.

And this is why the tension between the man and myself, already pretty tight, became even tighter, and it was though we had become tied together by a sort of wire or rope that wouldn’t let us go until at least one of could stop trying so hard to get out of it.

A flower could have been cut, but wasn’t. That was the opinion of...