Readings, Rated
Unfuckingbelievable
Why the fuck did David Foster Wallace kill himself? And why are his obits so fucking paltry? How is it in any way fucking fair that each and every last person on this earth is going to spend the rest of her life without getting to read anything new he’s written?
What the FUCK? NOT FAIR. So not fair.
We never intended Literago as a journal, but the first way I thought of processing the suicide (?!) of someone this important to both literature and, well, me is to blog about it. Fuck any notions of postmodernism — that the funniest and most important North American writer of the last two decades hanged himself is just BALLS.
This bullshit is senseless and horrible, but I can’t help but think it will lodge him more solidly into the adolescent firmament, which can only be a good thing. I will go to sleep thinking of a small, pimply teenage girl of the distant future reading Infinite Jest on a rickety suburban schoolbus.
This is gonna hurt.
They are starting a memorial reading group in Denver. I wonder if there is any interest in doing something similar here.
Maybe he thought life was a meaningless joke?