RIP: David Foster Wallace

What seems like a million years ago, I remember picking up a paperback copy of "The Broom of the System." I think it was 1988 or 1989. As I started to read, I remember laughing, laughing, and laughing some more. Though I don't remember any plot points of the novel (time to re-read, yes!), I remember loving its snarky humor and witty wordplay. "Who was this guy?" I thought. Later, as David Foster Wallace wrote more books--short story collections, essays, and one fricking huge novel called "Infinite Jest," I continued to read and chuckle. I remember his essays about playing tennis as a teen (hot, Southern Illinois wind) and his hysterical exploration of the culture of cruise ships (food, food, and more food). Before David Sedaris, for me, there was David Foster Wallace.

Over the last few years, however, I had not thought of Wallace much.

Then, driving home from Chicago on Sunday, I heard the news that he had died--committed suicide actually--on Friday. I was surprised at how strong my reaction was to the news. I didn't know him. I had only read him and heard him read once at an independent bookstore. Yet, I was sad and angry and curiously shocked.

There have been several tributes (appreciations) in the New York Times already but I like this one today by VERLYN KLINKENBORG, his colleague at Pomona College.

I like how it shows David, the man and teacher, and not just the writer, though I realize it is impossible to separate these roles in any one. Anyway, I just wanted to write something instead of kick the wall and curse loudly about the absence of one more offbeat, self-aware, funny, and wickedly smart man in the world.