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.