It probably is weird that a overdue library notice inspires me to write these sorts of things, but that's not truly accurate, really. It's just one of many, many neuronal firings, but it's a cute one to pin down when you want to start something that seems more than a touch craven. I'm being a publicist, even for a good cause, but it still makes you feel dirty.
The Google Readerites among you are no doubt aware of my somewhat glib note that was appended to the share of this article in the New Yorker. That piece was accompanied (or vice versa, or side-by-side) by a magnificent, bracing and epic mini-biography of David Foster Wallace which is thoroughly deserving of your attention, and to accompany that, a response.
Here's a comment from the latter article for an idea of the level of devotion DFW inspires:
I'm just glad that I'm not the only one out there who didn't know DFW personally but still experienced his death as a personal blow. Talking about it certainly helps. Reading, too. I've read every book/novel/collection he published. Including the book on the lemniscate-symbol, which I barely understood but still enjoyed reading. I've also started reading the American Heritage Dictionary, because DFW was on the Usage Panel. It's kind of sad how desperate I am to connect with the man's writing. [italics added]
2 comments:
I hated that article. Poorly written piece of annoying. You suck.
I have no idea what you're talking about, as you didn't reference which article you're talking about. Also, you left out a noun. Your comment sucks.
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