One of my favorite authors, David Foster Wallace, has apparently committed suicide. The article doesn’t speculate why, which is appropriate – who can possibly know? I obviously didn’t know Mr. Wallace except as an author of amazing skill and range. His gigantic 1996 novel, Infinite Jest is a great book, worthy of its comparisons to Pynchon and DeLillo. His essays, however, were equally accomplished, exploring subjects as diverse as lobsters, cruise ships and John McCain. That last essay, recently published in its own paperback volume, is really worth checking out. Wallace gets at the essential strangeness of McCain and the way he presents himself. It’s an excellent read.
It’s strange when people we don’t know, but have had an impact on us die. I’ve read a lot of Wallace’s writing. It’s meant a lot to me over the years. On a human level, I feel sorry for his wife and his family – but I didn’t know them, so that kind of sympathy can only be distant and general. But I did read his writing, and I do feel very sorry for the world that there won’t be any more.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
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Didn't seem appropriate to me to put this in the main post, so here's one of my favorite (very) short stories by Wallace.
"A Radically Condensed History of Postindustrial Life" by David Foster Wallace.
When they were introduced, he made a witticism, hoping to be liked. She laughed extremely 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.
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