His detractors accused him of being show-offy, of calling attention to his own cleverness, but they, too, were wrong. He meant, with his footnotes and his digressions, to acknowledge the agonies of self-consciousness and the “difference between the size and speed of everything that flashes through you and the tiny inadequate bit of it all you can ever let anyone know.” Point taken. Still, I read about his characters, each tennis prodigy and recovering addict and transvestite hooker and yuppie and ad exec and game show contestant and closeted political aide, and thought: Hey, I know you. Maybe it was an illusion — Wallace would have been the first to admit as much — but it made me feel less alone, too.

In memory of David Foster Wallace, 1962-2008