David Foster Wallace (DFW)

 Se murió David Foster Wallace. Se colgó en su baño. Creo que nadie lo vio venir, era una novelista relativamente joven, pero claramente exitoso. Yo no he leído ninguna de sus novelas, pero recuerdo hace años ver a mi hermano cargar con el pesado Infinte Jest, y después una navidad le regalé Everything and more: a compact history of infinity (siempre imaginé que sería cosa de matemáticos). Hace menos tiempo lo vi cargando y recomendando la recopilación de ensayos Consider the Lobster la cual también le regaló a mi madre. Hace unas semanas que me dio apendicitis y tuve que estar en cama me regaló su primera novela The Broom of the System, y me recomendó el ensayo que escribió para la Rolling Stone en el año dos mil sobre la precampaña de John Mccain,"Up Simba!" (este ensayo se lo recomiendo mucho a cualquiera que quiera entender a Mccain, es una perspectiva diferente a la que se lee ahorita y Foster Wallace era simpatizante demócrata). La novela no la he leído, lo cual haré en homenaje al muerto (antes tengo que acabar Noticias del Imperio y All the King's Men, también lecturas de enfermo). En fin, toda esta introducción para poner el correo que me mandó mi hermano en respuesta a la nota de periódico sobre la muerte de Foster Wallace. (aquí se puede leer un artículo de Salon.com sobre DFW)

From: Tomas.Lajous
To: undisclosed-recipients : ;
Subject: Consider the writer
Date: Sun, 14 Sep 2008 10:57:55 -0500

I received a couple e-mails with news of the death of David Foster Wallace (thanks). I'm amazed that people wake up sooo early on Saturday morning and read the paper… Hold that thought. I"m amazed that people stay up so late on Friday night AND read the paper (guys – get a date!)…

I am very sad. I never thought the death of someone I've never met (though I did fantasize about becoming his pen-pal) would have such an effect. Would I have cried on end when Lennon was shot? Maybe. But this one, for some reason, resonates. (It is already curious that my friends sent me the e-mails.)

So I sit here, listening to the most befitting record for DFW's death: Digital Ash in a Digital Urn. Absolutely hi fi. Jimmy Tamborello has come up with the musical equivalent to footnotes—added to Conor Obest's magnificent songs. Assonance. Dissonance. Tempo changes. Sel-referential production (the faders DO move wheb Obest croons "and the faders move"). And the death-obsessed lyrics ("we hurry to our death", as did DFW). All about the mid-west. I guess Omaha is not that different from central Illinois.

My brother is probably reading The broom of the system. I gave it to him recently. Yesterday, packing for the weekend I grabbed a copy—we could talk about it over dinner in a few weeks (like we talked about the infamous McCain essay last week). But I put the book back on the shelf (leaving DFW and Belle & Sebastian's lo fi behind) and brought business books and The Corrections, instead..

Where I'm at does not have a good DFW repository. And I have no computer. So I can't wiki DFW as I wish I could. But I can try and remember. (On Friday I was looking through Vik Muniz's memory paintings—oh the beauty of the distortion. A question that I had is whether Burt Bacharach and Elvis Costello figured that they were singing to a beauty that wasn't there.)

Out with the truth. I've never read Infinite Jest. Well, I've read it many times. So, truth: I've never finished Infinite Jest. Like Sisyphus (or whatever he's called, the guy with the big stone). I now for sure will, even if out of sheer will. But it's one of my favorite books. Futuristic tennis camp has got to be grounds for great literature anyway you look at it. Or for brilliant footnotes (so that haven't gotten through more than 300-400 pages means more like 600 when including these).

Never fully read, it still rings so true. DFW clearly had an impact: I once wrote a love letter with footnotes. McCain became a-palatable-republican from a-republican, in my head. I'm a happy mook when it comes to understanding porn. I saw why my brother can't own a TV (Sartori, eat your heart out). The blissful isolation and blank thought allowed me to become a bit of a runner. I now see much more clearly what a girlfriend meant when talking about David Lynch's beauty. And no, am never going on a cruise.

In death I say that DFW was probably the best America writer of our generation (definitely NOT Dave Eggers). I am happy to have said it aplenty in life. Critics say he never committed to anything (the "I am both pro-choice and pro-life" essay….). He hid behind his incredibly ambitious and extraordinarily intelligent writing to never actually say anything. I disagree. He implied everything. He had a view on everything. And he either transmitted it or made one really think about it (and it is very clear that he hates much of what the middle-America he defines lives for). It did it for me.

I am going to do three things:
1. Go to the mid-west and think about middle-America.
2. Read Infinite Jest and re-read the rest of DFW.
3. Consider the writer, which we almost never do.

But am still sad.

Tomás

Ps I need to learn to write by reading different dictionaries.