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Slackie Onassis

Slackie Onassis
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Chicago, Illinois, US
Birthday
April 16
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University of Chicago
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Graceless under pressure, unfashionably late, the Anti-Jackie, Jackie Oh No, the Slackitudinous One, neither best nor brightest, favoring the pillbox over the pillbox hat, punk before pink, and swine before pearls.

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Salon.com
Editor’s Pick
SEPTEMBER 14, 2008 7:13AM

David Foster Wallace, R.I.P.

Rate: 2 Flag

Wow, I just saw that David Foster Wallace1 died.2 Apparently he hanged himself at the age of 46 years. That took me by surprise this morning. He's certainly one of the bright lights of contemporary3 literature. I wasn't a fan4 of his style of writing, although I am curious what demons he was wrestling with that would have compelled this. I hope he wasn't on antidepressants5 or something. I'm always suspicious when somebody commits suicide and/or murder-suicide out of the blue like that, whether some SSRIs were perhaps involved.

 

 


1Acclaimed and highly successful postmodern author. 

2Ceased to exist; perished.

3Current.

4Enthusiast; afficionado; lover.

5Zoloft, Paxil, Prozac, etc.

 

 

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fiction, writing, open call

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I think we all wrestle with demons. Sometimes, the greatest minds and the biggest hearts just see and feel too much.
Shit! I'm taking a creative nonfiction class right now and am reading his stuff. I like it, although I think it's sort of subversive in some way. It's like he always got the joke and the rest of us didn't.

God, that's depressing. On the ssri's, I think the thinking is they make a depressed person, who could be considered suicidal except for their profound lethargy, gain just enough momentum (read, energy) to do the deed. Point being, the ssri's don't actually make them depressed or whatever, just that they give them the energy to act on their already existing depression.

But yeah, I'll bet he was on them.
Is this really true? I don't believe it.
I know the man is dead, but that was a nice parody of his writing style. Infinite Jest is sitting on our coffee table right now, looking like its going to fall through the table. I still can't figure out what he was trying to say that took a thousand pages - I haven't gotten to page 200 yet, and I've had the book for three years.

Wallace and Rick Moody seemed to be truer in their fiction than Augusten Burroughs was in his memoirs. I don't know what it is about the part of the New England stratosphere they occupy, but the amount of prescription drug abuse they wove into their narratives was staggering.

In some ways, trying to read his opus, Infinite Jest, I thought Wallace was trying too hard to emulate Thomas Pynchon.

I haven't read much by Wallace lately, and he hadn't been in the news much. It is probably hard to be a fading star.
I had trouble slogging through Infinite Jest t0o -- but I loved the man's essays and I think he occupied a kind of shift in the American novel that I think a lot of younger writers admired, myself included.

It's a sad moment.
I was just looking at his books on the shelves at Powell's when I was in Portland a couple weeks ago. "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again" -- the title essay from the collection -- is one of the funniest, most brilliant pieces of feature reporting ever.