Howl for DFW

While I've never particularly loved the actual writing of David Foster Wallace, I love and admire his heart that bled and continues to bleed through his work. I don't know if it's a particularly strong connection I share with him (or my idea of him) or if it's the terrible sadness I feel over the loss of one of my tortured artist brethren. Those of us that survive need to commemorate those of us that drop like flies.

In New Sudden Fiction, Wallace's "Incarnations of Burned Children" demonstrates the ache of his heart bleeding through his words. I initially began wincing at this piece upon read an early line in  which Wallace mentions a "[...]toddler in his baggy diaper standing rigid with steam coming off his hair and his chest and shoulders scarlet and his eyes rolled up and mouth open very wide and seeming somehow separate form the sounds that issued[...]"

...not finished. : )