Ever since I heard on Sunday about the tragic death of David Foster Wallace, I haven’t really known what to think. It’s hard to know what to say about the death of someone you didn’t actually know but that had a huge cultural and personal impact on yourself or someone you know.
I never had an exceptionally personal connection to him. But my brother on the other hand…
I’ve learned a lot from my brother over the years. He’s taught me how to be sarcastic and to deal with the inner workings of a crazy family. He’s been a parent to me in a lot of ways. He’s protected me and helped me when I needed it. He’s my brother, plain and simple. It doesn’t necessarily sound like a lot. But to me it’s meant more than you can imagine.
Not to long ago when my brother and I were both at our childhood home for one of our ever rarer visits he came into my room, handed me a copy of David Foster Wallace’s A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again and said something along the lines of “Read it.”
My brother has always been remarkably close-fisted about sharing his interests with me. He’s remarkably wide-reaching in what he does read and listen to but he’s never been one to give me suggestions. I have two main influences from an entire life knowing him: Weezer and an uncanny love of Sci Fi. So for my brother to actually come and hand me a piece of writing that I know he considers important enough to share with his bonkers little sister, well, it’s pretty important.
I think I read at least part or all of one essay but I tend to be rather like a bird with essay collections. I rarely sit down and read the whole thing in one sitting. I generally can’t be bothered and the sheer shifting of topics is rather tiring. Anyway, the book never got moved back to my apartment and thus it’s still sitting in my room, probably under my bed, gathering dust.
About two months ago I was wandering around the used book section of my local bookstore and I saw a copy of Wallace’s A Broom of the System. I thought about buying it but then I remembered that although I am generally financially solvent, I having been lacking in finances. Of late, I’ve been borrowing books from the library-a weird sort of fusion between my child and adult selves.
So I got A Broom of the System and Consider the Lobster out of the library and set about reading them. Unfortunately, mostly due to sheer size of my library, I’ve been inundated with books as of late. I actually managed to start one of the essays from Consider the Lobster but by the time the due date came up I already had at least five other books started and/or waiting to be read and I returned the books.
These memories have been pinging around my mind the past few days as I try to make sense of the loss of one of the great writers of our generation. Wallace was one of a host of unbelievably talented writers who all came of age at a certain time and in a very short amount of time have changed the way the world and the way I think of writing. The poetry of their writing (for that, more than anything, is what it is) has changed the way I think of literature. We need not read those dull tomes of pain when we can read the great novels of love and pain and confusion.
I’m going home in a few weeks and one of the things I won’t fail to do is to put Wallace’s book in my luggage to cart back to Boston. I may even drag back some of my brother’s copies without his knowledge (is this ok, brother?). Sometimes it drives me crazy that we only realize the greatness of someone once they are gone from this world.
You will be missed, David Foster Wallace. I hope this honors your memory. I’m sorry it took me this long.
