David Foster Wallace, R.I.P.

I'm not really an avid reader of great writers. It's too much work and I possess too much of that impossible combination of laziness and freneticness that dogs many people in my generation to sit down and read a 1000+ page novel, half of which is written in 6 point type footnotes. But just reading two collections of his essays was enough to establish David Foster Wallace in my mind as one of the great living writers. He had an unsurpassed command of all aspects of the English language and displayed such sharp wit and observational skill that it is a huge pleasure to read any sentence he's written. I can't do him any justice by writing about him. I'm just terribly sad he's gone. Here's an overly lengthy excerpt from E Unibus Pluram, an essay he wrote about how totally wrong writers are when they think they are voyeurs gathering observations of humanity by watching television:

Illusion (1) is that we're voyeurs at all: the "voyees" behind the screen's glass are only pretending ignorance. They know perfectly well we're out there...What we see is far from stolen; it's proffered- illusion (2). And, illusion (3)...what young writers are scanning for data on some reality to fictionalize is already formed composed of fictional characters in highly formalized narratives. And, (4), we're not even seeing "characters" at all: it's not Major Frank Burns, pathetic self-important putz from Ft. Wayne, Indiana; it's Larry Linville of Ojai, California, actor stoic enough to endure thousands of letters from pseudo-voyeurs berating him for being a putz from Ft. Wayne. And then (5) it's not even actors we're espying, not even people; it's electromagnetic-propelled analog waves and ion streams...throwing off phosphenes in grids of dots not much more lifelike than Seurat's own post-Impressionist commentaries on perceptual illusion. Good Lord, and (6) the dots are coming out of our furniture, all we're really spying on is our own furniture, and our very own chairs and lamps sit visible but unseen...

Many of his essays, describing everything from luxury Caribbean cruised or getting caught in a tornado while playing tennis, are funny. But it's his quest for truth and insight and his ability to translate that into written words that made him exceptional. I'm really saddened by his death. And I will finally get around to reading his 1000+ page novel.