David Foster Wallace died last week of an apparent suicide, the ultimate footnote to his life. Live by the footnote, die as a footnote of a footnote. I mourned his passing because I’m a contemporary of his in age at least. I haven’t made my name in the field of sarcastic, post modern, hyper-ironic literary fiction quite yet, but barring the ingestion of copious amounts of narcotics or an errant bullet in my brain, I just may succeed in not dying quite as soon. So if I can live to the ripe old age of ninety, I have exactly the same amount of time as David Foster Wallace to make a literary name for myself before I die.
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