Da’d get angry: who are we scared of, then? Then who are we, a sone, to be scared so of our own Da? As if the Da that broke daily his back were nothing more than a. Can’t a Da show his son some love without being taken for a. As if Matty could lie here with his food inside him under bedding he’d paid for and think his Da were no better than a. Is it a fookin you’re scared of, then. You think a Da what comes in to speak to his sone and holds him as a Da has nought on his mind but a fook? As if the sone were some forty-dollar whore off the docks? As if the Da were a. Is that what you take me
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Again, uncomfortable and while interesting in an experimental stylistic way the stuttering refusal to say the word (probably the f-word) is more melodramatic than meaningful. People say this type of juxtaposition of postmodern literary tricks with highly personal verisimilitude is supposed to enhance Wallace's point: real communication is more important than any slick but empty showmanship.
