The particular form of “human loneliness” to which Wallace was attuned was the sense of seclusion suggested by solipsism. Kate, Markson’s narrator, seems to be in a situation like this, her world constituted entirely by her mental states. She shares this predicament with the traditional metaphysical subject of epistemology—the knowing consciousness, the “I” of Descartes’s “I think, therefore I am”—who begins his intellectual journey trapped in his own mind, concerned that everything might just be a figment of his imagination (though he ultimately builds his way out of those confines to reach the external world). Wittgenstein, in the Tractatus, runs into the concern that his argument leads to solipsism—and his striking response is to agree, after a fashion, that it does. “There’s a kind of tragic fall Wittgenstein’s obsessed with,” starting with the Tractatus, Wallace explained to McCaffery. “I mean a real Book-of-Genesis-type tragic fall. The loss of the whole external world.”
How did Wittgenstein get to this point? The Tractatus is concerned with a disarmingly basic question: How is language possible? When we consider the world around us, everything seems to interact with everything else causally, in accordance with the laws of nature. The exception is a certain strange thing we call language, which somehow manages to interact with other things in the world in an entirely different way: it represents them meaningfully. The ability to represent things allows us to communicate, enables us to deal with things that are not actually present to us, and provides the fabric of our mental life, our daily thoughts. But how is it, exactly, that language produces meaning?
In the Tractatus, Wittgenstein argues that for words to represent things, for sentences to stand for states of affairs, language and reality have to share something in common. To explain what this commonality is, he introduces his so-called picture theory of meaning. An ordinary spoken or written sentence, he contends, when properly analyzed or disassembled into its component bits, reveals an elementary structure of logical parts and factual parts. This elementary structure, he argues, literally pictures reality: objects in the world correlate with the words in the sentence, and the relations among and between objects in the world correlate with the relations among and between the words in the sentence. A sentence has a certain elementary structure; things in the world can stand to one another in a certain structure; the identity of these two structures simply is meaning. A meaningful sentence depicts a possible state of affairs in the world; a meaningful and true sentence depicts an actual state of affairs in the world; anything in language that does not depict a possible state of affairs—that is, anything that does not depict possible fact—is, strictly speaking, meaningless.
Wittgenstein draws from the picture theory of meaning some arresting philosophical conclusions. The Tractatus regards as nonsensical, as literally meaningless, any claim that cannot be reduced to discrete facts about things in the world—for instance, any statements about ethics or aesthetics (“goodness” and “beauty” don’t refer to actual things or properties). Another such type of nonsense, according to Wittgenstein, are metaphysical statements, claims about the supernatural, say, or the nature of the world as a whole. How language relates to reality—the very subject of the Tractatus—is itself, however, a concern about the world as a whole. This is the central irony of the Tractatus: its own claims are, strictly speaking, meaningless. They can be used only to try to show, but never to state, anything true. (This is the source of Wittgenstein’s famous parting image of his book as a ladder that his reader must “throw away” after “he has climbed up it.”)
For Wallace, the most disquieting feature of the Tractatus was its treatment of solipsism. Toward the end of the book, Wittgenstein concludes, “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” This is a natural corollary of the picture theory of meaning: Given that there is a strict one-to-one mapping between states of affairs in the world and the structure of sentences, what I cannot speak of (that is, what I cannot meaningfully speak of) is not a fact of my world. But where am “I” situated in this world? By “I,” I don’t mean the physical person whom I can make factual reports about. I mean the metaphysical subject, the Cartesian “I,” the knowing consciousness that stands in opposition with the external world. “Where in the world,” Wittgenstein writes, “is a metaphysical subject to be found?”
On the one hand, the answer is nowhere. Wittgenstein can’t make any sense of the philosophical self—any talk of it is, strictly speaking, nonsense. On the other hand, Wittgenstein can get some purchase on this question. He draws an analogy between the “I” (and the external world) and the eye (and the visual field): Though I cannot see my own eye in my visual field, the very existence of the visual field is nothing other than the working of my eye; likewise, though the philosophical self cannot be located in the world, the very experience of the world is nothing other than what it is to be an “I.” Nothing can be said about the self in Wittgenstein’s philosophy, but the self is made manifest insofar as “the world is my world”—or, as Wittgenstein more strikingly phrases it, “I am my world.” This, he declares, is “how much truth there is in solipsism.”
“I am my world” is what Wallace had in mind when he spoke of “the loss of the whole external world” in the Tractatus. There is no difference, ultimately, for Wittgenstein between solipsism and realism (solipsism “coincides with pure realism,” he writes). For Wallace, this was a harrowing equation, the dark emotional takeaway of the Tractatus’s severe anti-metaphysics. This was also, for Wallace, what Markson had rendered imaginatively in his novel. Without ever raising these ideas explicitly, Markson had conveyed them with a special kind of clarity. Wittgenstein’s Mistress, by echoing the Tractatus’s brusque, dreamlike sentences and placing Kate in a cold, lonely, self-as-world cosmos, had managed, as Wallace put it, to “capture the flavor both of solipsism and of Wittgenstein.” What’s more, Wallace felt Markson had done something that even Wittgenstein hadn’t been able to do: he humanized the intellectual problem, communicating “the consequences, for persons, of the practice of theory; the difference, say, between espousing ‘solipsism’ as a metaphysical ‘position’ & waking up one fine morning after a personal loss to find your grief apocalyptic, literally millennial, leaving you the last and only living thing on earth.” That was something only fiction, not philosophy, could do.
Solipsism, sometimes discussed as a doctrine but also evoked as a metaphor for isolation and loneliness, pervades Wallace’s writing. “Plainly, Dave, as a guy and a writer, had a lifelong horror/fascination with the idea of a mind sealed off,” Mark Costello told me. “His stories are full of sealed-off people.” The self-obsessing narrator of “Good Old Neon,” who has committed suicide and addresses the reader from beyond the grave, says “you’re at least getting an idea, I think, of what it was like inside my head,” of “how exhausting and solipsistic it is to be like this.” The high-school students at the tennis academy in Infinite Jest wrestle with the question, “how we can keep from being 136 deeply alone people all jammed together?”—a problem that one of them diagnoses in intellectual terms (“Existential individuality, frequently referred to in the West. Solipsism”) and another in emotional ones (“In a nutshell, what we’re talking about here is loneliness”). The novelist Jonathan Franzen, one of Wallace’s close friends, has said that he and Wallace agreed that the fundamental purpose of fiction was to combat loneliness. The paradox for Wallace was that to be a writer called for spending a lot of time alone in one’s own head, giving rise to the feeling, as he wrote in “The Empty Plenum,” “that one’s head is, in some sense, the whole world, when the imagination becomes not just a more congenial but a realer environment than the Big Exterior of life on earth.”
Could solipsism be overcome? In The Broom of the System, Norman Bombardini, a very wealthy and very overweight man who owns the building in which Lenore works, bemoans what he calls “the Great Horror”: the prospect of “an empty, rattling personal universe, one where one finds oneself with a Self, on one h
and, and vast empty lonely spaces before Others begin to enter the picture at all, on the other.” His devises a solution, a kind of spoof of the Tractatus’s line “I am my world,” which is to keep eating until he grows to infinite size, making himself coextensive with the world. (He calls the scheme “Project Total Yang.”) Bombardini is only a minor character in the novel, and fittingly so, for the bulk of The Broom of the System is concerned not with the solipsism of early Wittgenstein but rather with the philosophy of the later Wittgenstein—who roundly rejected solipsism. Just as Markson conjured the solipsism of the Tractatus into an artistic creation, so too did Wallace hope to summon, in Broom, the anti-solipsistic worldview of Philosophical Investigations.
The Investigations offers a conception of language that is diametrically opposed that of the picture theory of the Tractatus. In Wittgenstein’s early work, language is something sublime, logical, abstract—something with a defining structure or essence that, if you think hard enough, you can puzzle out in your head. In the Investigations , by contrast, language is seen as a messy human phenomenon, part of social reality—a rich variety of everyday practices that you figure out the way a child does, by publicly engaging in them, getting the hang of the unspoken rules by which communities use them. The shift in imagery is from language as a picture to language as a tool. This is the point of the Wittgensteinian mantra “meaning as use”: If you want to understand the meaning of a word or phrase or gesture, you don’t try to figure out what it represents; you try to figure out how to use it in real life. Wittgenstein called the rule-governed social practices that determine meaning “language games.”
As Wallace was delighted to discover when he immersed himself in the Investigations later in college, the implications of this view for solipsism are potentially devastating. Given Wittgenstein’s conception of language as a public phenomenon, whereby words get their meaning only by virtue of their shared use, what are we to make of the notion of a strictly private language, the voice of a solipsistic “I” who is speaking only to himself, in his own unique tongue, reporting private sensations and entertaining private thoughts in an otherwise barren world—the voice of a person living entirely in his own head? Wittgenstein’s answer was that this idea, though seemingly viable, at least as a thought experiment, is in fact incoherent. The meaning of words is their use; the use of words is a matter of following rules; and following rules is entirely a social affair. There cannot be thought apart from the use of language—and language can operate only within a set of social practices. Thus there is no private thought without a corresponding public reality. “An ‘inner process,’ ” as Wittgenstein put it, “stands in need of outward criteria.” To phrase it in Cartesian terms: I think, therefore I am part of a community of others.
Wallace told McCaffery that Philosophical Investigations was “the single most beautiful argument against solipsism that’s ever been made.” Though the anti-private-language argument has been extraordinarily controversial, Wallace heralded it as though it were an indisputable mathematical proof. “The point here,” he wrote in “Authority and American Usage,” while giving a summary of Wittgenstein’s argument, “is that the idea of a private language, like private colors and most of the other solipsistic conceits with which this reviewer has at various times been afflicted, is both deluded and demonstrably false.” Solipsism was dead. Loneliness—at least that image of loneliness—was an illusion.
The defeat of solipsism was half of what Wallace sought to capture in Broom. But while Wittgenstein may have “solved” solipsism for Wallace, there was a catch—a final entangling conundrum with its own frightening implications—which Wallace also wanted to convey. On its face, the account of language in the Investigations seems pleasantly, reassuringly everyday: language is an ordinary, familiar, social, custom-bound human activity. But in other respects the account is quite extreme. Because all language and thought take place inside some language game or other, there is no transcendent, non-language-game standpoint from which you can step back, as it were, and see if any language game is better than any other—if one of them, for instance, does a better job of mirroring reality than another. Indeed, the question of whether any language game accurately represents reality can be asked only within some other language game, which operates according to its own set of nonevaluable conventions. In his early work Wittgenstein was in the business of stepping back from language, appraising its relation with reality, and pronouncing which uses connected us with something real and which did not; the Investigations is in another business altogether, describing without judging, merely “assembling reminders for a purpose,” in Wittgenstein’s phrase.
In Wallace’s view, Wittgenstein had left us, again, without the possibility of contact with the outside world. As he told McCaffery, the Investigations “eliminated solipsism but not the horror.” The only difference between this new predicament and that of the Tractatus was that rather than being trapped alone in our private thoughts, we were trapped together, with other people, in the institution of language. This was warmer than solipsism, but, as another form of being sealed-off from reality, it was cold comfort. Explaining this disheartening realization, Wallace said that “unfortunately we’re still stuck with the idea that there’s this world of referents out there that we can never really join or know because we’re stuck in here, in language, even if we’re at least all in here together.”
In The Broom of the System, these two dueling emotional reactions—the fear of being trapped in language and the relief that at least we’re all trapped in it together—are given playful expression. Lenore suffers from a fear, as she explains to her psychiatrist, that Gramma Beadsman is right that “there’s no such thing” as “extralinguistic anything.” (Wallace’s metafictional joke is that, for Lenore, as a character in a novel, there really isn’t any reality other than language.) Lenore’s boyfriend, a magazine editor named Rick Vigorous, soothes her throughout the book by compulsively telling her stories. Each of his stories is a not-so-thinly veiled allegory of the problems in their relationship, so that, even within the confines of the novel, Lenore and Rick become characters joined together in a reality constituted entirely by language. In the novel’s climactic scene, a televangelist-charlatan named Reverend Sykes provides another image of this same double bind: escaping loneliness together in a language game, but sealed off from a higher reality. He asks the members of his TV audience to lay their hands on their TV screens in unison in order to commune with God—to join together in what he calls a “game” that will give everyone the consoling impression of making contact, together, with the ultimate transcendent referent. “So friends,” Sykes says, “laugh if you will, but tonight I have a game for us to play together. A profoundly and vitally important game for us to play together tonight.” His patter culminates in a three-sentence exhortation, the lines of which invoke the ideas of “meaning as use,” language games, and the struggle against loneliness: “Use me, friends. Let us play the game together. I promise that no player will feel alone.” Compared to the artful techniques of Markson’s novel, these devices may seem clunky, but the intellectual aspiration was much the same.
It is worth noting that, in his discussions of Markson, Broom, and solipsism, Wallace was engaging throughout in what you might call a “strong misreading” of Wittgenstein’s work. His explications of Wittgenstein’s philosophy are not always convincing or strictly true. Highly questionable, for instance, is his assertion of what he called “the postmodern, poststructuralist” implications of the Investigations , which entail that we can’t make true claims about the real world (a popular reading of Wittgenstein that many scholars hotly dispute). More straightforwardly wrong is Wallace’s claim that Wittgenstein shared Wallace’s own horror of the picture of the world in the Tractatus. Wallace told McCaffery that the reason Wittgenstein “trashed everything he’d been lauded for in the Tractatus” and developed the philosophy of the Investigations was that he “realized that no conclusion could be more horr
ible than solipsism.” Wallace also contended, in “The Empty Plenum,” that the impoverished role granted to ethics, aesthetics, and spiritual values in the Tractatus was “a big motivation” for its disavowal.
In truth, however, the biographical literature suggests that Wittgenstein was perfectly at ease with the solipsism of the Tractatus, as well as oddly, even mystically consoled by its suggestion that ethical, aesthetic, and spiritual truths are unutterable. As for the development of the late philosophy, it seems to have had its origins not in a fear of solipsism but rather in two deeply resonant objections: a technical criticism that the British mathematician Frank Ramsey made in 1923 about the Tractatus’s treatment of the matter of “color-exclusion” and a playful challenge, posed by the Italian economist Piero Saffra, that Wittgenstein provide the “logical form” of a meaningful hand gesture.
It’s possible that Wallace’s own anxieties about being “trapped” in his own head colored or confused his reading of Wittgenstein—that he projected them, in philosophical terms, onto the Tractatus and the Investigations, resulting in an overemphasis on solipsism and giving Wittgenstein’s treatment of the doctrine an alarmist, even hysterical cast. But given Wallace’s otherwise sure-handed feel for philosophical texts, it seems likely that his distortions were at least in part intentional, offered in the service of artistic and emotional “truths.” That would certainly be consistent with the ideal of fictionalized philosophy that he strove for in Broom and venerated in Wittgenstein’s Mistress—a kind of writing that blended scholarly command and poetic reimagining.
Fate, Time, and Language Page 4