DAVID FOSTER WALLACE
(Feb. 21, 1962-Sept. 12, 2008)
I had a younger brother's awe about David, because he was so graceful and hilarious and solicitous in person — as well as intellectually imposing. I met him when he did a reading just after [his story collection] Girl With Curious Hair came out in 1989. Dave read for about 45 or 50 minutes, unable, it seemed, to find a punctuation mark at which he might stop. A whole very sophisticated idea about how to make contemporary fiction was ratified for me that night. We talked about our lives glancingly, from time to time, over the years — making sure the other was okay. I guess it's impossible in these dark days not to wish I had been able to help more.
When the ache of his death is overpowering, there's the writing, the legacy: his novel, Infinite Jest; stories like ''Oblivion''; essays like ''Consider the Lobster.'' I think writers are always failed social animals. I certainly am. There aren't too many people I feel comfortable with, certainly not many writers. That I cared so passionately about David's work is the truest measure of how much I loved the guy, because that's where I found the fullest and most complex evocation of who he was. I treasure the work as I treasured the man. —Rick Moody
Wallace, 46, hanged himself in Claremont, Calif.
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