![]() I would finish a book and then scour the internet for DFW-related flotsam and jetsam, watching bits of interviews on Youtube, reading profiles and old reviews anywhere I could find them. ![]() A book of short fiction (and its film adaptation, just to see how they thought they’d pull something like that off). The doorstop, with an insufficient dictionary beside me. Yes, the commencement address, of course. Where had this been? How had I missed it?Īnd so I set about un-missing everything I could find with his name on it. I clicked some links and found a few of his essays and some nonfiction and began to feel like someone hearing Nevermind for the first time in May of 1994. While I had read only one of his short stories, it was obvious that a big part of the reading public had been devouring every word this man had to offer. I’m sure I heard the news of Wallace’s death on or shortly after September 12, 2008. It’s been there for more than a year now, passed over time and again. They always stop at David Foster Wallace’s Oblivion, the last story collection he published. My fingers tap the spines of my books, working from the top left corner of my TBR shelf to the bottom right, pausing occasionally to slide a book from its spot before returning it a few seconds later. ![]()
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