David Foster Wallace died. They say it was a suicide. (I really didn’t want that to rhyme.)
So bummed right now. He was one of my favorite authors. The first time I read his stuff was in Harper’s, “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” an essay about a cruise he takes, and “Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away from It All,” about a midwest state fair. Of course I bought his book of essays, titled after the cruise essay.
I never attempted his novel Infinite Jest but waited on bated breath for every essay he wrote. There was one a couple of years ago in the Times about Roger Federer and tennis, and another book of essays, Consider the Lobster.
He was a really really funny author, and man did he love footnotes.
Tomorrow is the Brooklyn Book Festival. I wonder how that will be.
i’ve never heard of him! i’m about to google the article you referenced. it’s always so tragic when anyone commits suicide (how tortured they must be?) but it’s even a little more heartbreaking when the person is a great talent…