David Foster Wallace, one of the most giftedand maddeningwriters of his generation, died yesterday, apparently of a suicide, at his Claremont, Calif. home.
The AP announcement is here.
Although he wrote a massive, Pynchon-esque novel, Infinite Jest, Wallace was best read as a brilliantly digressive essayist, on topics including tennis, cruise ships, grammar and lobsters.
I’m not a vegetarian, but his disquisition in Gourmet magazine on the ethics of boiling and eating crustaceans almost made me one.
