David Foster Wallace took his own life last week. It has taken this long for me to respond. My first year sober was spent reading his seminal novel ‘Infinite Jest’ in my little room, all 1079 pages, including footnotes. It helped me while away the time, made me laugh, question reality, and made me jealous that someone could write a book that long and that crazy. Here’s a random quote, from page 579, of the Little-Brown soft cover published in 1996…
“Something touching about a gift that a toddler’s so awfully overwrapped makes a sickly-pale and neurasthenic but doting Mrs. Green, Bruce’s beloved Mama, choose the mugged-dachshund-foil-sheen-cylinder present first, of course, to open, on Xmas morning, as they sit before the crackling fireplace in different chairs by different windows with views of Waltham sleet, with bowls of Xmas snacks and Acme-‘N-logoed mugs of cocoa and hazelnut decaf and watch each other taking turns opening gifts.”
Joyce, Kerouac, and others pale in comparison.
I had a lovely conversation with my sister this morning and felt better about all these life situations than I have for a long time. Something about the final line in the promises that says “God is doing for us what we cannot do for ourselves.” That fills me with hope. My qualifying went very well also…A good, but small group of grateful alcoholics. My sponsee even made it. What a guy.
So how about that extremely dangerous idiotic pair of McCain and Palin? If they get their way we will all soon be living in an irrational, nationalistic, medieval society. Then will come the witch hunts, the public burnings, and our nation will soon live in the bonfire of global shame. How can someone like this ignorant harpie get to this position?
Only in America, ladies and gents, only in America…