I'd like to write more of this, but (a) I would have to refresh my memory of Wallace's work and (b) I'm really, I confess, rushing to get something, anything in before midnight.
INFINITE JEST
David Foster Wallace, 1962-2008
Like Treadwell
striding off
into the
Grizzly Maze,
like some half-
assed high
school actor
forgetting
his next line,
he loses
his place.
Some skull yanked
from a hole,
with the dirt
shaken off.
Some joke,
the kind that
lasts beyond
the grave
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2 comments:
It's all a lot better than you think.
What a spectacularly ambiguous statement, opening its arms around the whole damn world.
Thanks very much.
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