Dang. I just found out today that my favourite living writer, David Foster Wallace, is no longer living. He killed himself last Friday. I guess he'd battled depression for a long time, and finally lost. I was quite stunned by the news and couldn't really get over it all day at work. It's really bumming me out because I believe, from his writing, that he was really onto what exactly the symptoms of human dysfunction in 21st century America are, in enough analytic, subjective detail that a solution seemed forthcoming. I've certainly modified and honed my own ideas on the subject a lot from reading Infinite Jest. Even though I haven't finished it (see above, and many other places on this blog, for instance here) — though now I'm more determined to than ever; I really only put it down because I was getting close to the end and didn't want it to be over — it's definitely the best novel I've ever read. Seriously. OK, I never finished Ulysses, to which it's often compared. OK, I never even got more than a third of the way through it, actually. But I can tell you IJ's a hell of a lot more entertaining than that admittedly beautiful and important opus. And even though it's hilarious and clever and post-modern, it's also tragic and brilliant and psychologically insightful.His collection of essays, A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, is also highly recommended for the same types of reasons, and has as a bonus what I used to think was one of the funniest titles ever. But now it just seems really sad.
- Andrew
1 comment:
That was a really interesting and sad article written about him...I'm sorry. You must be feeling pretty sad.
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