I never cracked the 1,000+ pages of "Infinite Jest," but a few years ago I did read "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again" by David Foster Wallace. I was in awe -- or should I say, belly-laughing, head-shaking, admiration. Many were the nights I would force myself to stop reading, and I would go to bed with one thought: I wish I could write like him.
Today I read in the New York Times that David Foster Wallace is dead at age 46, and it makes me furious and sad. Apparently he killed himself. I do believe there is a fine line between genius and madness (Wallace actually won a MacArthur Genius grant some years ago) yet I'm always shocked by how many talented people wrestle with demons.
His work lives on, and Foster's nonfiction is among the small percentage of my books that are here with me in Northern Ireland. I'm going to read "A Supposedly Fun Thing ..." again, and I recommend it to you.
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