I’m profoundly sad that David Foster Wallace commited suicide. In this article, I reflect on my experience reading his work and ponder the unanswerable “whys.”
Dale’s friend had painted him a paint-by-numbers eagle and was mad when he didn’t collect it. What ultimately happened was surprising, to say the least.
After my first week as a blogaziner (there’s a mouthful), I reflect on the lessons learned and the successes. Overall, it was a pretty good week. I also write about my feelings about how we will recognize my aunt’s passing and the strange Jewish urges that are taking hold of me.