This one hit really hard, you guys. Seriously, David Foster Wallace was one of the few living literary figures that C.C. genuinely believed could save the world.

Here are two pieces in The Times:

David Foster Wallace, Influential Writer, Dies at 46

Exuberant Riffs on a Land Run Amok

One of my favorite pieces he ever wrote was this essay for the New York Times on watching Swiss tennis living-legend Roger Federer play live in the 2006 Wimbledon final versus now world No. 1 Raphael Nadal. He goes into the most mundane yet pivotal mineutia regarding how the tennis ball is hit, explains just why what athletes like Roger Federer do is so remarkable, and gives the game of tennis the rapt attention that a Trekkie would give to a Schatner sighting at a Star Trek convention, all at risk of marginalizing himself and alienating readers. I loved this man’s work. Rigorous (word of the year!) and hilarious, absurd because of its meticulous accounting of the real, idiosyncratic and breathtakingly long-winded. Marvelous.

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1 Comment

  1. The loss of Wallace is a terrible, terrible tragedy. How many authors do you know are dubbed “the next Pynchon” and (for once) actually live up to that high praise? Mr. Wallace’s death leaves his fans to eternally ponder the question of what might have been. He was only going to get better and more mature as an author. I’m in a state of shock–it will take some time to get over this one…


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