David Foster Wallace died yesterday. He hung himself.
He was one of those writers whose work I identified with intensely - he captured the peculiarities of American indulgence beautifully. I can locate a particular time in my life when I started to read Infinite Jest. Even though I couldn't swallow all 1079 pages of it, I did devour his collections of short stories "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again" and "Brief Interviews With Hideous Men".
He gave one of the most brilliant Q & A I've seen after a reading from "Consider The Lobster" at the Hammer Musem about two years ago. My friend swapped anecdotes about Zanesville, Ohio with him during the signing afterward.
While I process the tragedy of his death, I can't help but think about a later body of work we'll never have the opportunity to read.
2 comments:
wow, i had no idea that he hung himself... so sad..
this seems a little close. my roomie's top 10 author list & wallace's connex to claremont & pom. college. the speculated motivation for his death is a product of the times we're in....it's hard not to feel powerless when we, the people, are constantly reminded, that we really have so little say-so. we must remember that daily, so that we make all our actions count w/ intention.
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