DFW is dead. For the last two or three days I have been reading his essays in Consider the Lobster and A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never do Again because I want my composition students to read him this semester, and I just found that he killed himself yesterday. At 46. I find myself deeply saddened by this. Infinite Jest is one of the best novels I have ever read, a real emblem of postmodern writing. His short fiction and nonfiction are innovative, experimental, interesting and relevant. In many ways he’s a role model for me, although I’m sure it’s not apparent from anything anyone’s read from me lately. 46. Dead. How sad.
