[Bill,
September 14, 2008]
Finite Wallace
(NOTE: Post rewritten and updated.)
David Foster Wallace died of an apparent suicide Friday. His wife found him hanged in their home. Two reactions: Sad. And WTF?
Some thoughts: I read some of Infinite Jest, but ended up flipping through it. The novel, to me at least, was brilliant in parts, but at others was self-consciously clever and self-consciously derivative. It was conscious of its own self-consciousness, which helped.
If you haven't read it, imagine Pynchon and Borges talking about rehab and tennis in way to demonstrate the underlying thesis of Neal Postman's Amusing Ourselves to Death. Having no interest in tennis, I ended up skipping over those sections and reading the addiction stuff. Given the book's structure (it's a shaggy dog story where neither of the two main plotlines intersect), I thought skipping around was probably the best way to read it.
The addiction sections were extremely well reported, and though they had great realism, those sections lacked something. I don't know what — belief? Optimism?? Which was strange, since he understood the subject matter so well, was an outstanding reporter and had quite a degree of wisdom. I never read the rest of his stuff, but always meant to. He said that he meant Infinite Jest to be a very sad book, and maybe it was that commitment to sadness that undercut the actual message of recovery ... which is based on grace, love, working the program in faith, hope and optimism. It's like he never could quite get himself to believe it.
Anyway, RIP, DFW.
That said, WTF? Offing yourself at home so your wife finds you? Were there no flophouses?
UPDATE: Apparently, Mr. Wallace suffered severe depression and had previously hospitalized himself for suicidal ideation and depression.
Some more thoughts: Wallace was unusually perspicacious — great at diagnosing our cultural problems. Said a lot of very funny things — once referred to someone as the sadder than anyone he's ever seen outside a creative writing program. He also had a good sense of the cures — the need to reject the glamor of evil and the need to immerse yourself in daily living. There really was a lot to commend him.
RIP.
David Foster Wallace died of an apparent suicide Friday. His wife found him hanged in their home. Two reactions: Sad. And WTF?
Some thoughts: I read some of Infinite Jest, but ended up flipping through it. The novel, to me at least, was brilliant in parts, but at others was self-consciously clever and self-consciously derivative. It was conscious of its own self-consciousness, which helped.
If you haven't read it, imagine Pynchon and Borges talking about rehab and tennis in way to demonstrate the underlying thesis of Neal Postman's Amusing Ourselves to Death. Having no interest in tennis, I ended up skipping over those sections and reading the addiction stuff. Given the book's structure (it's a shaggy dog story where neither of the two main plotlines intersect), I thought skipping around was probably the best way to read it.
The addiction sections were extremely well reported, and though they had great realism, those sections lacked something. I don't know what — belief? Optimism?? Which was strange, since he understood the subject matter so well, was an outstanding reporter and had quite a degree of wisdom. I never read the rest of his stuff, but always meant to. He said that he meant Infinite Jest to be a very sad book, and maybe it was that commitment to sadness that undercut the actual message of recovery ... which is based on grace, love, working the program in faith, hope and optimism. It's like he never could quite get himself to believe it.
Anyway, RIP, DFW.
That said, WTF? Offing yourself at home so your wife finds you? Were there no flophouses?
UPDATE: Apparently, Mr. Wallace suffered severe depression and had previously hospitalized himself for suicidal ideation and depression.
Some more thoughts: Wallace was unusually perspicacious — great at diagnosing our cultural problems. Said a lot of very funny things — once referred to someone as the sadder than anyone he's ever seen outside a creative writing program. He also had a good sense of the cures — the need to reject the glamor of evil and the need to immerse yourself in daily living. There really was a lot to commend him.
RIP.
And you're a good writer ... you've got the alabama press association awards to prove it. Put together a series of columns and make a book out of it.