I Am a Bad Person

So I was reading the essay The Unfinished: David Foster Wallace’s struggle to surpass “Infinite Jest.” that's in The New Yorker, and I couldn't get enough. The portrait of Wallace, the writing. The sadness. And in the back of my mind, I was wondering about when Pynchon and Salinger go, will there be essays like this. Surely, I thought, and when there are, I want to read them. That, I suppose, doesn't say much to my being "a fucking human being." Or maybe it says it all too well.

David Foster Wallace (February 21, 1962 – September 12, 2008)