I'm reeling over the death of one of my literary idols, David Foster Wallace. Dead at 46, an apparent suicide. I run hot and cold, angry at him for leaving us too soon with too little (by my count, 2 novels [3, if you consider one is large enough to count twice], 2 short story collections, 2 non-fiction collections), sad that he's gone, happy that I got to know him prehumously through his writing.Everything I've read from the man has inspired me to be a better writer. True, the big one, Infinite Jest, sits atop my interminable stack as one that I have not, yet, finished. I will one day, when I'm ready. Maybe I'll take a week or two vacation from work to do nothing by that. Perhaps that's what I need.
He could string a sentence together in such a way that I would get mad at myself for not thinking of it first. He mixed wit and pathos in such a way that it was hip and postmodern at the same time. He wrote the best essay on the porn industry that I... let me stop there. I never knew someone *could* write a good essay on the porn industry.
There will be no more from DFW. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is. Let the mourning commence.
1 comments:
He's always been on my list of things to read, but I've just never managed to make the leap. It's always sad to see someone with so much talent die so early.
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