|In Honor of David Foster Wallace...
||[Sep. 17th, 2008|06:49 am]
Woman with brain implant engages in erotic self-stimulation to the point of neglecting everything else|
I've not written about David Foster Wallace' suicide last week. He seems to have gotten a lot of ink because of it, more mainstream press for topping himself than he ever got for his writing. I couldn't help but think that 90% the people reading about his death said "huh?"
It is a vast loss. I have a habit learned in pre-internet days -- whenever I'm in a book store or record store, I check, hope against hope, to see if an author or musician I enjoy has something new out. David Foster Wallace was at the top of my author's list.
That is how I read the complete Philip K Dick oeuvre. One book at a time as I discovered them, sometimes in the most ridiculous places. I found one on a rack in the Pueblo, Colorado bus station when I was stranded there for an afternoon. As I remember every other book on the rack was either a trashy mystery novel or a stroke book.
It was frustrating but amazing to live in a world like that, like panning for gold in a muddy stream. Now I can go on line and not just find out about every book an author has written, but have it show up in my mailbox in a few days. I prefer that, but I feel nostalgic about the hunt.
Of course I have the same thing going on with music gear now -- no pawn shop or music store is too crapulent for me to visit, thinking that if I keep at it I'll find a brilliant piece of gear for nearly nothing.