The Pale King. As a result, I spent most of last Friday — the book's official release date — in something resembling the state of mind of the character in DFW's story "The Depressed Person."
And I still haven't been able to bring myself to actually buy the damn book. The reason, I think, is that there's something really final about that. It's something I'll never do again: Buy a new novel from my favorite writer of all time. It's that thought alone that brings about nearly soul-crippling sadness. Not helping matters is the fact that, in a somewhat cruel twist of fate — which isn't really fate, because I freely chose these books myself; it's more like an evil masochistic coincidence — I'm currently reading not one, but two, books about suicide (Anna Karenina and The History of History).
And but so, it's hard for me to account for why DFW's suicide has affected me so forcibly. After all, it's been two-and-a-half years now. But it might as well have been yesterday. I won't bore you by rehashing why I love his writing — you can read that here, in a post I did in Dec. 2009 celebrating my one-year anniversary of finishing Infinite Jest. It's not like his writing disappeared when he did. I don't know. To state the obvious, it's just overwhelmingly sad that such an awe-inspiringly brilliant writer offed himself in the midst of his prime.
Okay, time to sack up. The Pale King's in my cart ready for check out. Nothing left to do but click............