Wow. Hard to believe.
It might have come and gone without me even noticing if a friend hadn’t tweeted a blog entry reminder to me earlier today. (thanks John) This is some powerful stuff. Example:
Then on September 12, 2008, fucking Wallace fucking killed himself. Look, I know well that depression is a disease. I know he fought it like a gladiator his whole life. I know, too, that he didn’t get the help he needed from the rest of us. I know that if we as a society approached depression and mental health with the same dedication and persistence with which we approached drunk driving or smoking or, hell, littering in the past, we’d bury a lot fewer of our brothers and daughters and heroes. We might have new Nirvana albums and Elliott Smith albums to enjoy. But I’m still angry at the events that took place and I’m still angry with these two heroes of mine who killed these two heroes of mine. I’m still angry for having my house burglarized.
I admit it. I share this dude’s anger and bitterness. It did and does feel like being fucking robbed. Same way it felt, for me anyway, when Cobain offed himself. I was bummed sure, but I was also like, What the fuck dude? I wanted more music. And, from DFW, I wanted more fiction. Maybe that’s selfish. Maybe I and other admirers don’t have the right to make such demands, but still…
Anyway…even though I’ll be bummed tomorrow (I already am now a little) I’m not sorry I was reminded. In fact, I’d be disappointed had I not been aware of it.
And even though it wasn’t planned, it kind of seems appropriate that I’ll be spending a part of my day tomorrow writing, working on my own novel, which, if I ever manage to complete, could never even come close to comparing to DFW work, even his weakest writing, but then whose can, right?
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get back to reading Infinite Jest. I started it this past summer but somewhere along the way I stopped. Odds are good I’ll never finish reading it, much less understanding it. I’ve yet to finish Broom of the System, a much shorter, much less dense, much more accessible novel, so, you know… I’ve always been more into the man’s short stories and essays anyway — good excuse, huh. But I’m grateful for the opportunity to try and read all of IJ. I’m grateful (and still a little amazed too) it was written in the first place, as I am with all of his work. And even though I am supremely disappointed — and yeah, a little pissed too — that that’s all there is there ain’t no more, in the end I’ll always consider DFW’s works a great gift, one that should never be forgotten or go unnoticed.
NOTE: I’m making the Infinite Summer blog my featured blog.