Welcome to the most peaceful page on the Internet.
Please, let the soothing cathodes snuggle you as close as you can manage. Let them breathe your air. The exhaust from their bassoons blows warm up your nose.
The night I found out you composed all of your poetry in MS Word, I was beside myself. “WHO AM I????” I wondered.
Saturday night I drank five beers and ate eight servings of mac and cheese in the kitchen. Between the cataclysmically running dishwasher, the beer roaring through my head, and the ceaseless clank of spoon hitting ceramic bottom, it was a deafening rush of noise in my kitchen. The undertow that steadily pulled me out to sea (a fitful, farty sleep) was D.T. Max’s essay about David Foster Wallace’s forthcoming unfinished novel, The Pale King. I had no idea that in the same room where he died,
in the garage, bathed in light from his many lamps, sat a pile of nearly two hundred pages. He had made some changes in the months since he considered sending them to Little, Brown. The story of “David Wallace” was now first. In his final hours, he had tidied up the manuscript so that his wife could find it. Below it, around it, inside his two computers, on old floppy disks in his drawers were hundreds of other pages—drafts, character sketches, notes to himself, fragments that had evaded his attempt to integrate them into the novel.
I don’t know if this is justification enough for his executors to publish the novel, but I was moved by the excerpt in the same issue (though surely I was wasted and moony), particularly in the context of Max’s piece.