Saturday, September 13, 2008


I read Infinite Jest in the late 1990s. It blew my mind. It was all a novel needed to be. Novel, for instance, and containing, well, all. I took up permanent residence in the year of the Depend adult undergarment.

And in the literature of excess.

The novel I wrote after reading Infinite Jest contained 967 footnotes. My publisher made me scrap all of those.

And now David Foster Wallace has decided to scrap himself.

If any frigging writer in this frigging country was not in excess, if any one was needed, it was him.


Here are some of the things that make a man, or so says Krishna:
Suffering and the end of suffering; fear and fearlessness; birth and death.

Mr. Wallace: May you rest in peace, may you be read, and may you be, to the extent we can, understood.

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