David Foster Wallace's Death Will Probably Make Wallace-Style Dystopia A Lot More Likely
Like you needed more reasons to be depressed about the suicide of writer David Foster Wallace.
The apparent suicide this weekend of David Foster Wallace has me pretty depressed, for a couple reasons. One, why do minds that brilliant always seem to self-destruct? And two, Wallace's work often functioned not only as a postmodern high-wire act, but also as a cautionary tale, warnings to us frogs in the pot about what it would look like if the water really started to boil. While George Saunders has, to a certain extent, taken up the mantle of jaw-dropping tales of tomorrow, his approach is unquestionably lighter. Of course, Wallace definitely had a sense of humor as well, but his work always carried an undercurrent of urgency, an almost desperate need to defuse as many terrible possible futures as he could. If it hadn't been for Infinite Jest's "Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment," you just know that somebody would have already tried to sell the naming rights for 2008. Without his hilarious, terrifying, engrossing warnings, what horrors will we blindly stumble into?