David Foster Wallace RIP

"Infinite Jest" it was called, and infinite is what it seemed. Filled with asides and footnotes, I swore I would never write a book so indulgent and in serious need of a serious editor.
Foster Wallace died at 46 about a week ago by hanging himself. Like Kurt Cobain, he left a good-looking corpse, with luxuriant long hair hanging in his face in most shots.
His death left the literary world twisting in its own hypocrisies Wallace's book sales will most certainly skyrocket, at least for a while.
One is immediately reminded of Chuck Klosterman's book "Killing Yourself to Live," which is about rock and roll, but can be applied to almost any creative endeavor.
On the face of it, "Infinite Jest (1996)," is unreadable. It did not put you into that trance-like state that good writing normally does. Instead, it is full of reminders to other things. The restless postmodern world, where concentration is impossible, and the more asides one has, the wiser and more thoughtful.
Lift a glass to the creative process, and scream.