Dear David Foster Wallace,On Wednesday I drank your new biography, Every Love Story Is a Ghost Story: A Life of David Foster Wallace by D.T. Max. I’ve read damn near everything you’ve ever written so knowing you through your work I was not looking forward to an overview of your life. You were a liar, an egoist, an indiscriminate lover of the ladies and, trust me, there is nothing worse than a man who loves all women. The practice lacks detail and smacks of a pandering case of “love me, all of you.” DFW, you died exactly when you should have, about 13 years after your sobriety saved you from an early bucket and allowed you to complete Infinite Jest. I feel badly for your biographer; every love affair, class, recovery meeting, and cross country mission was a dead end for you – twisted by falsehoods ranging from self-fiction to manipulative lies. Perhaps most importantly, you ate like a vagrant; incessantly complaining about your lack of funding, mooching free home cooked meals off friends and academics in exchange for your brilliant(!), unparalleled(!), literary and philosophical discourse. When you made your home at Amherst you were a member of the “5:01 Club,” the group would hit the cafeteria when it opened for dinner, carb-load, and retire to the library – I like this detail about you and it is the only thing we have in common. Regardless of your character, drinking your biography compelled me to feed you the way your written words feed me, will always feed me…
You loved pop•tarts.
You ate them all the time, a recovering booze-hound who couldn’t shake the need for sugar. Since you liked home cooked meals in exchange for your brilliance this seems like a fair trade. I hope your taste in pop•tarts is as indiscriminate as your taste in women because I have a few doozies for you to try.
I hope you enjoy my labor of distaste, you insufferable bastard.
All Best and I Love You,