For those who haven’t heard me say it, David Foster Wallace is probably my favourite author ever. News of his suicide late last year left me a bit rattled, and saddened not just to hear what he’d been living through, but also from thinking that there would never be another DFW novel. Testament to his own compassion are the hundreds of memorials and tributes that flowed in the following weeks to McSweeney’s, to which he had been a contributor in the past.
The New Yorker has run a longform article on his life and work, and published an excerpt of his unfinished novel The Pale King, which looks to have been finished by D. T. Max and is said to be ready for release some time next year.
In the meantime, if you haven’t already done it, set aside a whole month and read Infinite Jest.
In other news, you can now follow my inane bullshit on twitter. Follow me!
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