I heard the news late Saturday night, and I could not believe it. David Foster Wallace, dead, by his own hand at the age of 46. A giant in his field, a man with infinite talent, and a tragic loss.
You may be wondering who this David Foster Wallace character is, and why he feels the need to include his middle name. I can't help out on the second question, but the answer to the first is that he was probably the pre-eminent writer of this generation, and it's a damn shame more people didn't realize that. The man was so good that Joe and Zhuangy were both familiar with his style and wit from the random anecdotes that I'd mention from his writing. In fact, when I passed along the news to Joe, he became exasperated and said goddammit, why is everybody good dying this year. And I had no answer for him, though God did--Rick Wright of Pink Floyd would die two days later.
Why do I care so much about the death of this writer? I mean, I had only read one book of his, and bits and pieces of his various essays. But when that book is
Infinite Jest, it shouldn't really count as one book--it's drama, comedy, tragedy, drug trip, catharsis, and spiritual awakening that is all crammed together in a post-modern near-future dystopian mess that perfectly captures the spirit of this past decade, all in a tidy 1079 pages. It's incisive and cutting, and introspective and touching, anything and everything. At this point, I'm pretty sure the meaning of life is hidden within those pages. It is the kind of book that doesn't give you any idea as to the context of the story or why anything would take place in the Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment until you're 350 pages into it, and that's just fine.
Actually, when I said I only read one book, it was a half-truth. I was about a hundred pages away from the finish when I heard the news. The only appropriate response I could think to make was to dive in and close it out. So I stayed up late last night, hours later than a guy who needs to catch up on sleep before law classes hit him in the ass for the rest of the week should, and completed the work. And upon completion, I realized I wasn't done, and I was slightly angry. I then went back and started the book again, as I realized that the book really did live up to its title, and upon reaching the scene where Hal and Don G. recreate the digging up of Yorick did I achieve a small sense of resolution.
I then spent the rest of today pondering the various lessons of DFW. With the benefit of hindsight, one can see how large a role suicide and depression played in a generally comic novel and how awful the foreshadowing proved to be. I remembered the passages that dealt with the intense psychic pain of depression, and realized that this wasn't the word of a clinician, this was the confession of a survivor. I tried to piece together the themes of alienation, of politics, of entertainment to the world at large. I remembered the dissection that DFW made of the inherent potential psychological ramifications of the introduction of videophones, and how over ten pages he savagely painted a picture of our vanities and worst qualities, but in an absolutely hilarious light. And that was the true essence of DFW.
It's hard to capture the craftsmanship on display in his work. I believe it's more subtle than not. I found myself going on for pages and then pausing to regroup and realize good god, that was a brilliant passage. It was a genius that didn't often shove itself in your face, but revealed itself over time. And it's a damn shame he isn't around to share it any more--and why the fact that it took CNN until late today to put up a story about him all the more infuriating.
If you're not ready to tackle
Infinite Jest, there are plenty of examples of DFW's essays all over the net, and I'll be posting links to them soon. I just hope that as a result of this unfortunate event that at least he'll gain some new fans.
Michael Jackson is dead. It's been on the news for days. That's it. Dead guy. OVER.
