What to do when a bird gets stuck in your house


drunken admiration, nights of
15 September 2008, 2:13 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , ,

I’m having a tough time concentrating on much today, mostly because I can’t stop thinking about David Foster Wallace’s death over the weekend. R sent me a link this morning, and since then my mind’s been reeling in a hundred different directions – his brilliance kept him high on my list of top authors, his works so interwoven with specific events and places in my own life, his death so sad and far away.

There is a unique love, I think, for people we will never meet: it expands, shifts years and time; it forgives; it inflates your own devotion to almost-spiritual significance. I hauled Infinite Jest to Paris, and, heart breaking at the thought of leaving it there, hauled it back. I once read that he edited 500 pages from it at an editor’s insistence and can’t imagine his feeling of (yes) infinite loss.

In hindsight, I suppose, that pain is the opposite to the chasm that led him to his last effort; that pain, at least, was filled with words and pages and passion and life. The world is peering into that chasm now, Mr. Wallace, and we will miss you greatly.

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