“The most important realities are often the ones that are hardest to see and talk about.” In the speech - which would later become known as "This Is Water" - Wallace introduces his argument by using a parable about two young fish swimming along. An older fish passes by and asks, “How’s the water?” The young fish swim on for a bit, and then one turns to the other and asks, “What the hell is water?” Arrogance This anecdote serves as a metaphor for our blindness to the most fundamental aspects of our lives. Wallace explains that we are often oblivious to the mental and emotional "water" we swim in—our default settings that dictate how we interpret and react to the world. One of the most treacherous aspects of this default setting is arrogance. Wallace shares a story of an atheist and a religious man discussing the former’s near-death experience. Both view the event through their own lenses, each arriving at vastly different conclusions. Wallace’s point here is that “blind certainty” can imprison us without our knowledge. When we become trapped by our arrogance, we are incapable of seeing the world from other perspectives. Reject Your Default Setting Wallace then expands on the concept of the “default setting,” which he defines as the unconscious belief that we are the center of the universe. This egocentric perspective can turn mundane experiences—like navigating traffic or standing in line at the grocery store—into sources of frustration and misery. The power of rejecting our default setting lies in choosing to see these everyday annoyances differently. When we choose to recognise the humanity in others, when we choose to see a crowded store not as a hassle but as an opportunity to practice patience and empathy, our experience shifts dramatically. This is not about suppressing negative feelings but about acknowledging them and choosing a more intentional response. Find True Freedom The final lesson Wallace offers is perhaps the most profound: true freedom comes from mastering the power of attention and awareness.

“The more things change, the more things stay the same” is something that I would often hear one of my dear friends say. I now invite you to take some time to read the (brief enough) short story by David Foster Wallace “A Radically condensed History of Postindustrial Life”. “When they were introduced, he made a witticism, hoping to be liked. She laughed very hard, hoping to be liked. Then each drove home alone, staring straight ahead, with the very same twist to their faces. The man who’d introduced them didn’t much like either of them, though he acted as if he did, anxious as he was to preserve good relations at all times. One never knew, after all, now did one now did one now did one.” Q. What kind of question is that? I guess… “One never knew”. Q. When he says the phrase "now did one”, repeated three times, perhaps due to the cyclical nature of the narrative and the repetitive patterns of human behaviour. But is it as simple as that? Perhaps, yes. Maybe, the absurdity lies in how individuals often find themselves in similar predicaments despite the passage of time. But then, is all our effort meaningless? does any of it truly matter in the grand scheme of things? Q. What? despite of your efforts, despite life changes, sweat, tears, despite you have given your everything, does it not matter? Q. I suppose so. On one side, there is a gloomy cycle where people fail to learn, and a cycle is formed. On the other, more optimistically, there is the opportunity to live life. There is the opportunity to know that despite it all, “the more things change, the more things stay the same”. Q. I suppose one can find some comfort in that, I mean, “After all, now did one”.

David Foster Wallace’s short story “Think” explores themes of human isolation, emotional disconnect, and mass-induced behaviours - a man on the brink of a seduction finds himself caught in a moment of profound self-awareness. Faced with a situation ripe for infidelity (a scenario involving "the younger sister of his wife’s college roommate"), he experiences an unexpected revelation. As the woman approaches him, half-naked and with "a slight smile, slight and smoky, media-taught," he’s struck by something deeper. Instead of being seduced by the moment, he feels a sudden urge to kneel, almost as if he is humbled by a reality that escapes the usual expectations of such encounters. I think that the detailed description of the moment: the man sees her expression as something straight from “page 3 of the Victoria’s Secret catalogue”, highlights the artificiality of the encounter. It’s not a real, raw human interaction; it’s rehearsed, fabricated—something that could easily exist on a TV screen or an advertisement. In this moment, the woman says a three-word question (likely "What the fuck?") which reflects her confusion. The man responds, "It's not what you think I’m afraid of." But Wallace leaves the real meaning ambiguous. What is it that he’s truly afraid of? What does he think she thinks? What does she think he thinks? The layers of perception are tangled, left for the reader to unravel. The narrator steps back, commenting: “She could try, for just a moment to imagine what is happening in his head… Even for an instant to try putting herself in his place.” Yet the task of interpreting these thoughts is left to us, the readers. So, what’s going on in the man’s head? (What I think to be true) The woman likely believes the man is hesitant due to marital betrayal or that’s what the “mass-induced opinion” would suggest, after all. But I think the man’s hesitation is born from something much deeper. He’s not just afraid of the sin of infidelity; he’s terrified of the falsity of the entire situation.

The story The Devil Is a Busy Man illustrates a quirk of human nature: people often need to feel like they are getting a deal for something, even if it means taking advantage of someone else. In the story, the narrator recounts how his father tries to give away a lawnmower for free, but no one accepts it. Then, he tries selling it for $5, and still, no one buys it. Finally, the father raises the price to $50, and people quickly buy it, feeling like they’ve made a smart purchase. This story highlights an aspect of human behaviour: we tend to value something only when we believe we’re getting a personal benefit or outsmarting someone else. It reflects the need to feel superior or to gain an advantage in our interactions. Perhaps the motive behind many of our actions is often selfish, even when we convince ourselves otherwise. Every action we take benefits us in some way, whether consciously or unconsciously. In the story, people saw no benefit in helping a random guy get rid of something for free. It wasn’t until the price was raised that they saw an opportunity to gain an advantage—a sweet deal, a personal benefit. This mirrors how, even when it comes to charity, we might be more motivated by the benefits we gain rather than the good we do. This suggests that the selfish way people act is not far removed from the way the Devil might work—subtly and insidiously. It raises the question: Is our charity truly selfless, or is it just a way to soothe our conscience? I know this might sound extreme and unreasonable. I’m not suggesting that we should stop helping people or avoid charity altogether. But it does make me wonder—if we truly care about a cause, why don’t we sacrifice more for it? How can we say we care deeply about an issue, advocate for it, yet not go out of our way to make a real difference? Is our support genuine, or is it just another way to feel good about ourselves? Consider this: If you’re willing to donate £1, why not donate £50? How do you measure someone’s struggle and justify how much you claim to care? And why do we often help only when it’s convenient for us?

We often look up to certain individuals—whether they be parents, friends, or mentors—as paragons of virtue, success, or wisdom. We idealise them, hoping that by following their example, we can achieve similar heights. But the harsh truth is, your role model will always let you down. This isn’t because they’re bad people, but because of the unrealistic expectations we place on them and the flawed nature of perfection itself. A story that captures the essence of this disappointment is Suicide as a Sort of Present. It tells the story of a mother consumed by self-loathing because she believes she has failed in life. When she has a son, she pins her hopes for redemption on him. She wants him to succeed where she feels she has not. Yet, when he doesn’t meet her expectations, she struggles with feelings of hatred but still offers him unconditional love, even as his behaviour becomes increasingly disturbing. The tragic climax occurs when the son takes his own life, a devastating outcome for a mother who strove for perfection in her role. The most obvious interpretation of this story is one of maternal failure. However, I believe the story isn’t just about the mother’s self-loathing due to her perceived imperfections, but rather her self-loathing because she strived to be perfect. Her drive to be the perfect mother—to show love and ignore her son’s alarming behaviour—is what contributes to the tragedy. This brings to mind a conversation I had recently with a dear friend. We were reflecting on how, as children, we often believed that adults had everything figured out. We saw them as perfect, infallible beings who knew exactly what to do in every situation. But as we grew up, we realised that adults are just as flawed and uncertain as we are. No one is truly perfect; everyone is still figuring things out as they go along. The shocking realisation at the end of the story—that the son has committed suicide—implies that perfection, as an ideal, is unattainable and unhealthy. It’s not something we should aspire to because, in doing so, we set ourselves up for failure and disappointment.