For the last month, I’ve been looking forward to the Pale King Monologues, the L.A.-based celebration of David Foster Wallace’s final novel – half finished – before he decided to eliminate his own personal map with a well-affixed noose and some seriously depressing thoughts. This post-modernistic author revitalized my faith in literature. His ability to explore pretentious-sounding vocabulary with a blue-collar bent was an exploration in linguistic calisthenics.
Known primarily for his bestselling 1000-page novel Infinite Jest – about 10% of the readers actually finish reading it in spite of its flat-out brilliance – Wallace distinguished himself with a wicked sense of humor joined by an unparalleled observational acumen.
Tonight represents my Hajj, a trip to literary Mecca, the once and final journey of a devoted prince. I am hoping for inspiration, something to hang from my ceiling when times get rough. But tonight, that wish seems a bit ironic and overwhelmingly macabre. Perhaps I’m better off just settling down with a good book.