David Markson (1927–2010)

Paradoxically, having practically gouged out my eyes reading large parts of Wittgenstein’s Mistress by David Markson, I consider it a very skilful and clever book, an impressive feat of writing and somewhat like a work of (conceptual) art.

It is a story narrated by a woman who is seemingly the last human on Earth. I say seemingly since this is never qualified by anyone else and is only the word of this somewhat unreliable narrator who could quite possibly be stark raving bonkers instead.
She feeds us her piecemeal story of a married life and son’s death before some supposedly Armageddon-type intervention leaves her alone on the planet (as far as we can tell), frequenting countries, cities and art galleries whilst ruminating rather obsessively and pedantically on life, culture and the world’s and her own personal history.

So why was it such a chore if it was so good? I confess that my experience of Wittgenstein’s work is very basic but I believe Markson deftly weaves the linguist’s particular style and concerns with language into this novel in the manner of obsession with meaning of the central character. Constant and meticulous attempts (bordering on fanatically pedantical affection) to communicate exactly what is meant take precedent over plot and like linguistic branches, tangents of miscomprehension are exhaustively explored before the initial point/route is rejoined a few paragraphs or pages later, to continue the ‘story’.

Yet this is all so very clever and impressive that Markson can so convincingly write as this possibly insane character lamenting her lost son and life whilst ruminating on so many facets of existence. It truly is a great feat of writing despite the fact that it makes it a real trawl to the end. If you are a fan of novels that make you work and think and concern themselves with what it is to mean and be understood - this will be right up your street.… (more)