Yeah, That Sounds Nice

I'm currently reading The Broom of the System by
David Foster Wallace (who else?). I had never ventured into DFW's fiction before, but at LaWell's prodding and providing of books, I am doing so. While I'm still in the nascent stages of the book and his fiction writing in general, I am enjoying it thoroughly, even if I still like his essays better. Aw well. Either way, I wanted to post this excerpt.

"I admit it, it is what I do, I am a kisser, and a kiss with Lenore is, if I may indulge a bit for a moment here, not so much a kiss as it is a dislocation, a removal and rude transportation of essence from self to lip, so that it is not so much two human bodies coming together and doing the usual things with their lips as it is two sets of lips spawned together and joined in kind from the beginning of post-Scarsdale time, achieving full ontological status only in subsequent union and trailing behind and below them, as the join and become whole, two now utterly superfluous fleshly bodies, drooping outward and downward from the kiss like the tired stems of overblossomed flora, trailing shoes on the ground, husks. A kiss with Lenore is a scenario in which I skate with buttered sloes over the moist rink of lower lip, sheltered from weathers by the wet warm overhang of upper, finally to crawl between lip and gum and pull the lip to me like a child's blanket and stare over it with beady, unfriendly eyes out at the world external to Lenore, of which I not longer wish to be part."

OK. So, I don't know if you noticed, but that whole thing was only two sentences. Also, wow. I don't know if anyone has actually experienced anything like that, but it sounds pretty incredible, no?

Seriously, the genius of this man almost hurts. In telling people about DFW, I say he was so brilliant, it tortured him. In reading him, I wish I could even approach a glimmer of his talent. The other part of me knows it couldn't handle that burden.

Fond Remembrance

I know you can't read this, because you're dead. I'm going to type it anyway.

I still miss you. Terribly. I think of you all the time, and I don't believe that will ever change. When you left, that changed my life forever, and it's a hole I'm never going to be able to fill. I loved you more than I've ever loved anyone else, including myself. Indeed, I loved you more than I thought I ever could. I hope you think I didn't take you for granted. I hope I knew how good things were when you were around.

When I visit the place you used to live, I still expect you to be there. That will probably happen until I stop visiting that place. It's not the same without you. It seems... cold there. Almost lifeless.

You saved my life. I hope you know that. When I was in my darkest place, where I couldn't even imagine the sun or the light, or even the divine, you were there. If you weren't, I probably would be dead now. And whenever I needed you, you just knew. You were there. I didn't even have to ask.

I will, one day, try to fill this void in my heart. I have to. But it won't be the same, and it won't be you. So whoever tries will ultimately fail.

I miss you. I love you. Forever.

Well, Shoot

Not exactly the best news I've read. The Baltimore Sun has a great article about this. I wouldn't call myself a voracious follower of Wallace's work; indeed, I don't really latch on to any particular author with the possible exception of Eric Schlosser. But any time I came across his work, I felt my soul rise. I saw a little bit of myself in his writing. Certainly not as limber or talented, but I could relate. I felt like, if I met him, we would be friends. Our brains, and possibly our writing, seemed to be similar. Perhaps this was his writing, perhaps this was hubris on my part. I don't know. At the very least, we could talk tennis for hours. He wasn't a "tennis writer" per se, but nobody wrote about the sport better.

Chillingly, I now discover that we may have been more alike than I would have wanted or desired. We all think about death from time to time. For whatever reason, I had recently been thinking about if I died tomorrow, how would I be regarded? What would the obituary say? Who would miss me? Ultimately, what would my legacy be? I think we all want to know how others will react to our passing.

Everyone has reacted to his suicide like he got punched in the gut. Knowing, of course, that he'll never read this, I just want to say to him that I'm sorry. I didn't even know you, David, but I'm sorry.