DFW, or, Looks Like We’ve Got Ourselves a Reader

I won’t be the only person to talk about David Foster Wallace today, but I think his suicide is one of those things that I need to find words for. He has been one of the most influential writers in my life personally, and his work has been so consistently important to me, it seems unfair to attempt giving it justice in my way, but still this urge overwhelms.

I watched him read once in D.C., back in 1999. He signed my copy of Infinite Jest, and seemed terribly shy. It was slightly surprising, because his reading was typical Foster Wallace in that it was tight, rhythmic, and precise. Long, but precise. Nothing was ever superfluous with that guy, despite all the words (and footnotes). He was a rock star among writers. I love plenty of music but there are a handful of songwriters that inspire me to think harder, work more, be better at things I do. And DFW had that effect on me. I never set a book down and thought I was going to try and write like him, but his work glowed for me, it left me dazzled and urged me to try and have at least one talent or skill life that was as gratifying to others as his writing was for me.

In other ways, he was a mysterious older brother or genius friend. I shoved his work on everyone I ever loved like a proud mother. Everyone has had to read Brief Interviews (“The Depressed Person” might be my favorite essay), make an attempt at Infinite Jest or smile and accept the gift of A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again. Before Kevin left on this tour, I tucked Consider the Lobster into his bag. I’ve evangelized DFW for ten years, and found comfort with others who have immersed themselves in strange lands, weird parties and awkward work scenarios. I’ve felt a certain loyalty and devotion to him, this man who would probably find my life to be the ultimate in grotesque/mundane, for as long as I’ve been a devoted reader, and his loss is something that will probably take me a while to actually digest.

It’s just occurring to me now that there is a limit to my experience of him. There will never be something new to eagerly pour over. No new novel, no new essay or commencement speech.

This is it.