"He was a man of his time and he limited it. "

David Foster Wallace, RIP.

When DFW killed himself last month I was shocked and saddened. I wrote some dreck and then deleted it and tried to forget about it. Then today I happened across this McSweeney's page of rememberances and was ensnared for an hour or so. According to my informal count I laughed out loud 7 times and cried 3 times. Why? I don't know. I mean I really enjoyed his writing and read all his books (except the one about infinity), but we weren't friends, I never met him or even saw him at a reading. I guess I just identifed in a twisted way: "That's how I would write, if I were smarter and a better writer", maybe I'm just super fucking anxious about the election tomorrow. Maybe it's that I started Infinite Jest just as I was falling in love for the second time. Maybe I am just a sap, or carrying so much sorrow that it's inclined to leak out at the slightest provocation.