On The Passing of a David Foster Wallace September 2008
David Foster Wallace hung himself.
Our connection was nearly infinitely minor. I tried reading a couple
of his books years ago, but they seemed pointlessly verbose. Then a
few news items along the way: his allegedly noteworthy graduation
speech (I recall skimming it, but remember nothing), and his Rolling
Stone article related to McCain in 2000 (which I didn't know of until
chancing upon a book that either contained or referred to it in an
"outlet mall" - where you'd not expect to even find a bookstore, by
the way).
The news prompted watching a couple videos of him online. He seemed
sensitive and vulnerable in likeable ways. I think we'd have enjoyed
each others' thoughts. But it's a sad reality that famous people are
quickly surrounded by throngs of idiots which make it impossible for
anything more than half a brain to permeate.
I can go a couple ways on this.
First, the loss of a "person of words" doesn't seem like much of a
loss, because words are just so much nothingness to begin with. Like
there aren't 8 billion other frothing yapmeisters ready and willing to
fill his void with more voidness. So, yawn, who cares?
Second, if you're going to believe in the magic of fiction, you may as
well go the whole hog, including the lipstick. Spare neither stroke
nor color. And clearly Mr. Wallace was at no such loss. And I can
appreciate his efforts. I can appreciate the mood from whence the
stuff of dreams oozes.
Oh well, back to "who cares?". There's no more a formula or system to
winning in life than there is to winning at craps. You place your bets
in accordance with your best apprehension and comprehension of what
seems to be the current trend, hopefully remembering that what seems
to be a trend is at least 90% what you've imagined it is, and thus
quite possibly not what it is at all (map/territory delusion).
Incessant verification is necessary, or at least helpful in the
current short run. And since the long run is (minimally) the sum of
the short runs, well....
The passing of Wallace reminds me of the passing of Lennon. It sucks,
and yet the struggle to survive doesn't leave much time to be mourning
or even merely dwelling upon what hasn't survived. We're going to move
on, as always.
We never knew the real Wallace or Lennon anyway. We knew only stories
about, mostly - if not entirely - concocted for others' monetary or
similarly egotic profit. Am I the only one on the planet sickened to
hear journalists nearly orgasming over their "story"? I mean, hey,
they even admit their shit is nothing but stories, but it works
because people love believing in stories. God, it gets so tiring.
Reality is repetition, which is just another way of saying there's
nothing new under the sun.
The absence of thought is genuine plenty.
STEVE's Bio:
Born of local BBS's, toddler of GEnie, adolescent of USENET, adult of
The Intarweb: I'm an ancient of says, a poster of the moster, the
mustard of mean, mister. Before MySpace was, I am. Yawn. Mostly Linux,
yet long-suffering in the throes of Doze. Trust me, the more online
changes, the more it stays the lame. It's been said if not flamed
before, merely buried in alta vistas you couldn't dream of in your
deepest, darkest deja news moments.
Yet here I am what I am, again, wondering if this medium can be other
than just words whose meaning you are.
Whisper words of pixel, let us see.
SRC
