I can only blame New Parent Syndrome for the fact that it took me this long to hear the news of the death of my favorite contemporary author, David Foster Wallace, who committed suicide last week at the age of 46 (NY Times obit here, an, um, tribute here).
As a librarian, not a lit professor, I won’t even attempt any kind of critical evaluation or celebration for you, nor will you find extensive footnotes below in an attempted tribute. I will say that the only time I have ever underlined anything in a book (not course-related, obviously) was when I finally hit upon the passage deep in Infinite Jest that seemed to be the keystone to the entire swirling galaxy of plot DFW had constructed.
i admired the clarity of his thinking, the precision of his language, and the depths of intelligence and creativity displayed in his elaborate constructions. It is both odd and sad to note that he will not be with us in the Year of the Depend Undergarment.
