The class sat frozen. No one in the writing

The class sat frozen. No one in the writing workshop wanted to give notes. The fact that John LeCarre was a student had freaked the budding writer's out. But Ted was an idiot and

had his out long freaked. But Ted being Ted, he was such a name-dropped that he knew some hipster schill on sight & demanded the class worship John. Nobody admitted not reading his

David Foster Wallace-wannabe pseudo-drivel, but they all knew what was coming anyway: a long-winded, witless invective on the relative merits of wit, minus Wallace's gift for

Plasticene plant manufacturing. He had his own greenhouse, remotely controlled by mice. The veggies grown there were delicious. They had no GMOs or pesticides, as far as Wallace

box,he only managed an average time.But,and this was the key point,he was the only candidate to hardly be affected by it.Wallace had to be it.Being stupid,controlling him was easy.

Unintelligibly as most had done before, Wallace was broken down into something that everyone hated. He had gave in. Big Brother had finally won. The world was corr

alating to their reality. Of course, they insisted it was Reality and as they had the biggest gun we all went along but fuming. Inside our heads ideas were percolating.

Then somebody brought up the idea of countering with some Pynchon. Everybody perked up at the idea. Seems obvious now but that was the moment it all turned around. We still didn't

half understand Pynchon's writing, but at least we had something to root for. Then someone brought up David Foster Wallace and we were all back to where we'd started.