The story of Wallace’s life makes it hard to say whether it should be written in experimental, fractured prose or in sentences that are right at home on the pages of The New Yorker, but our effort to answer the question — and this is the most important one that must be asked of Max’s book — necessarily recapitulates the major intellectual and artistic struggle of Wallace’s life, a struggle he never found a way to overcome. Wallace spent years battling those who would domesticate his sentences and put a harness on his imagination.
Biography is a genre that, by definition, attempts to give an arc to a life. Telling it in Wallace’s prose, which was purposely crafted to deny any kind of a narrative arc, is contrary to biography’s aims. Just because Wallace attempted to do this as a writer, I see no reason why a biographer should attempt to replicate what he did.
For a good idea of how a writer can craft a satisfying biography while staying true to an experimental writer’s core sensibilities, I recommend Like a Fiery Elephant, Jonathan Coe’s biography of the very highly experimental British writer B.S. Johnson. This book, I’d argue, is what DT Max’s should have aspired to.