I've been distracted. More about that later. Right now, a time out to mourn the death of one of America's most important contemporary writers: David Foster Wallace. He hanged himself last Friday in his California home. It's a loss I can only begin to put into words.
I met DFW many years ago at the book party for Infinite Jest. It was a coup to get into this party - you had to get past 2 sets of bouncers (for a BOOK party!). My friend Valerie had just interviewed him for Stim Magazine and they'd hit it off, so she and I wound up in the back room with DFW and a few of his friends. He seemed stricken by the whole event. Infinite Jest was largely about the horrors of consumerism. The rep from Little, Brown had stood up on the bar and welcomed the crowd by saying, "We'd like to thank David Foster Wallace for writing a big book so we could charge $29.95 for it!"
Perhaps he was being ironic. It didn't seem like it. Regardless, DFW shortly disappeared. One of his friends found him locked in a stall in the bathroom. At his own book party. For one of the biggest books of the decade.
Apparently, when the friend found him, DFW said to her: "I just want to go back to my hotel room and watch Baywatch." (He admitted later, in an interview, that he loved Baywatch - he loved the fact that in one hour, a problem was presented, then fully resolved.)
I used to think this story was pretty funny. Not so much anymore.
RIP, DFW. You've changed the face.
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