September 13, 2008
Holy Shit
This was not what I expected to see as I was heading to bed on Saturday night: David Foster Wallace may you rest in peace. I still haven’t read Infinite Jest.
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This was not what I expected to see as I was heading to bed on Saturday night: David Foster Wallace may you rest in peace. I still haven’t read Infinite Jest.
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whoa. harshing my buzz. I started, but haven’t finished Infinite Jest
I know, I can’t quite believe it.
I, for one, have read Infinite Jest. I was hoping to read more of the same.
A real waste, to be sure.
We eat, sleep
and excrete,
then all we have left to do
is die.
It is the nature of our world, though I could think of better way’s of ending it all.
I have Infinite Jest in my bedside end table along with fifteen other books to read but Murakami’s TAKING SO LONG, and then Katherine Anne Porter is clamouring to be finished and there’s only so much Pale Horse Pale Rider in this girl.
I am strangely relieved to learn that there is only so much Pale Horse, Pale Rider in you, Amanda Mae, and I’m not even altogether certain what I mean by that.
Amanda Mae and Sheila, my mother looked, in her 20s and 30s, pretty much exactly like Katherine Anne Porter.
Carry on.
Katherine Anne Porter had an Insane Life, marrying and divorcing so many men half her age. I do so love her casually elegant prose though, and if that’s what’s required to be a writer of her caliber, lead on. Though men half my age are currently 11, so maybe not.
Dang.
I know, riiiigh’?
Well, what happens, you may well discover, is that as the years pass, the gap narrows.
I don’t know if that’s true. When I am 66, they will be 33. That seems to denote some sort of larger gap. But, ahh, I think you may be speaking of a different level.
Mmm, yeah. I wasn’t thinking literally half my age. In fact, I have a pretty rough time thinking literally at all, so you can pretty much take that as a given.
I have a letter from DFW from 1993. I had written him a fan letter back then, and he responded with a nice reply. At the time I was working at a bookstore, B. Dalton’s, in a mall, and I must’ve mentioned this in the letter because in his letter he replied, “I could never work in a mall. Just being in one makes me feel like killing myself.” I’m very sad at the loss.