Plot Summary
“Here and There” follows a couple whose relationship weakens slowly, almost imperceptibly. Wallace moves between the male narrator’s interior monologue and Ruth’s more grounded emotional presence. The story has no dramatic turning point. Instead, it tracks how attention drifts and how closeness dissolves by degrees.
Early on the narrator reveals the central problem when he says, “I began thinking about how I felt instead of just feeling it.” Ruth wants connection in a lived, immediate sense. She tries to bring him back into the moment with lines like, “I don’t want explanations. I want you here.” He keeps responding with analysis rather than participation, as if the relationship were a puzzle he could solve from a distance.
By the end they have not fought or broken anything. They have simply failed to meet in the same emotional space long enough for intimacy to survive.
Analysis
What stands out in this story is how Wallace uses language not just to tell a breakup story but to shape the emotional geometry between two people. Everything hinges on how each character thinks, speaks, and perceives.
Wallace’s control of psychic distance is especially sharp. The narrator’s voice pulls the reader upward into abstraction, where feelings are categorized and reinterpreted. Ruth’s scenes pull the reader downward into direct speech and present emotion. The movement between these levels creates the illusion of two incompatible operating systems running side by side. The story’s title becomes structural rather than symbolic. Ruth exists here. The narrator thinks from there.
Wallace also lets the narrator reveal himself through his phrasing. His thoughts loop, qualify, second-guess. At one point he admits, “I could feel myself pulling back even as I tried to come closer.” The line works because Wallace has already trained us to recognize this gesture. The narrator does not name emotions. He handles them at arm’s length. His voice creates a kind of conceptual fog that stands between him and Ruth.
Another technique worth noting is Wallace’s use of repetition as erosion. The narrator returns to the same analytical habits again and again. Each pass smooths a bit of warmth off the relationship. Ruth’s speech is concise, instinctive, uncomplicated. The mismatch between their linguistic rhythms becomes a source of emotional tension. It is a reminder that dialogue and interior monologue can create opposing currents inside a single scene.
The real craft lesson here is how Wallace uses attention as the story’s engine. No external event drives the plot. The only thing that shifts is where each character places their attention. Ruth keeps pointing hers toward the present moment. The narrator keeps directing his toward a mental model of the relationship. The emotional stakes rise through contrast rather than conflict.
This story shows how a writer can build pressure without theatrics. Every line carries weight because Wallace tunes the reader’s awareness of distance. The language does the work. The form becomes the theme. Two characters talk, think, misunderstand, and drift, and by the end you feel a kind of quiet inevitability settling over everything.
What stays with me is how the story demonstrates the difference between describing a relationship and inhabiting one. Wallace makes that difference visible at the level of syntax, pacing, and thought movement. He shows that emotional truth often lives in the small, invisible choices a character makes about how to perceive their own life.
That is what makes this early Wallace story worth studying. Not its plot, but its precision. Not its scale, but its sensitivity to the ways language can open and close the space between people.
