I was shocked to hear about David Foster Wallace. Yesterday morning, I had the TV on as I puttered around the living room. I was halfheartedly watching a morning soft-news program, but devoting most of my energy to rearranging the bookshelf. A slide show came on the screen: pictures of a silent-film star and stills from her movies, then a picture of DFW. Then, "In Memoriam." I thought, This must be a fluke, so I called Eric and asked him if DFW was dead. "I don't think so," E. said, "but maybe you should check the internet."
Some people seem to me perplexingly immortal: their particular personalities [those they share with the public] and histories of accomplishment make them seem, to my mind, unable to die. This isn't repression or immaturity on my part: now, more than ever, I've been thinking about mortality (my own, that of those close to me) and how its nearness accelerates the older I get. I wouldn't say I've grown accustomed to the thought of my own death, but I'm acclimating. Despite my very logical understanding of the necessity of death, I still experience cognitive aberrations. DFW existed for me as one such aberration.
2 comments:
agreed. his death really came out of nowhere. at least, in that way in which i knowing nothing of his life outside of the part of it which was his written work can say it came out of nowhere in terms of what my conception of him was.
I was talking to some friends this morning about my conceptualization of certain famous people - how it doesn't seem to include death - and it made me realize how little we know about the people we revere.
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