Among The Jumbled Heap

The name David Foster Wallace is seldom mentioned without the word “prodigy” in the same sentence. Sometimes “prodigy” is preceded by “fucking,” as in the following: “David Foster Wallace is a fucking prodigy.” Sometimes this sentence is further punctuated with an “asshole” at the end, either with an ellipses or with the combination conjuction article, as in the following: “David Foster Wallace is a fucking prodigy…asshole.” OR “David Foster Wallace is a fucking prodigy and an asshole.”

Which came first the prodigy or the asshole–and I’m not speaking here about syntax but about the man? Was he an asshole because he was a prodigy or a prodigy because he was an asshole?

Okay, I’ll stop it with the potty talk. This foul mouth of mine obscures my sadness on the death of this asshole prodigy. Wallace was probably not an asshole. People who knew him well say he is/was the sweetest guy they ever knew. I only know him through his writing and I confess to being both jealous and disgusted. In the words of the famous Johnny Wink (holding up pinky finger, waggling it), “I’d give my pinky finger to write like that.”

Perhaps David is best known for Infinite Jest, a novel whose girth intimidates even the stoutest of readers even without it’s 200 pages of footnotes. I never finished the bad boy (I carried a copy around for almost ten years and watched my Camel Buck bookmark move only a few milimeters each year). I did, however, find the energy to read almost everything else the brother wrote. After each story or essay, I would think, “Damnation, that’s either the best shit I’ve read all year, or the worst, but I think it’s the best…or maybe the worst.”

I felt/feel a personal connection with David that is a sure sign that he was, in fact, good. He gets in there, deep down, even when he’s bad.

On Friday, September 12, David Foster Wallace hanged himself in his Los Angeles home. He was 46. I miss that fucking prodigy asshole. I wish I could have taken better care of him.