lunes, septiembre 15, 2008

DFW

David Foster Wallace is dead.

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14 comentarios:

Frank Báez dijo...

Que pena, viejo. Un buen escritor. Sobre todo esos cuentos cortos que no tienen las notas a pie de página. Viejo, un abrazo desde la isla.

no sé quién dijo...

Qué te diré... es un oficio peligroso, ese.

blogworkorange dijo...

O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Lend me a little tobacco-shop,
or install me in any profession
Save this damn'd profession of writing,
where one needs one's brains all the time.

tetrabrik dijo...

grande, dino, pound parodiando a yeats. :)

saludos frank y no sé quién

Anita dijo...

Alto riesgo.

Besos.

Juan Murillo dijo...

Mae, que tristeza, de verdad, es como perder al compa que uno hubiera querido de hermano mayor.

kumar ineproc dijo...

un pie de página en su honor. viene de un texto sobre lexicografía publicado en Harper's:

5. Please note that the strategically repeated 1-P pronoun is meant to iterate and emphasize that this reviewer is very much one too, a SNOOT, plus to connote the nuclear family mentioned supra. SNOOTitude runs in families. In ADMAU's Preface, Bryan Garner mentions both his father and grandfather and actually uses the word genetic, and it's probably true: 95 percent of the SNOOTs I know have at least one parent who is, by profession or temperament or both, a SNOOT. In my own case, my mom is a Comp teacher and has written remedial usage books and is a SNOOT of the most rabid and intractable sort. At least part of the reason I am a SNOOT is that for years Mom brainwashed us in all sorts of subtle ways. Here's an example. Family suppers often involved a game: If one of us children made a usage error. Mom would pretend to have a coughing fit that would go on and on until the relevant child had identified the relevant error and corrected it. It was all very self-ironic and lighthearted; but still, looking back, it seems a bit excessive to pretend that your child is actually denying you oxygen by speaking incorrectly. But the really chilling thing is that I now sometimes find myself playing this same "game" with my own students, complete with pretend pertussion.

luis fer dijo...

ahora sí. a conseguir libros.

Sentenciero dijo...

...y a pagarlos más caros porque el tipo desapareció.

Juan Murillo dijo...

Aquí hay un perfecto ejemplo de porque Foster Wallace era un escritor tan importante, el texto completo de su ensayo E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction, escrito cuando tenía 28 años:

http://www.accessmylibrary.com/coms2/summary_0286-5495526_ITM

Asterión dijo...

Hola, Luis:

En la entrada sobre G. W. Villalobos, en Tetras largos, hay un mensaje para vos.

Saludos.

Warren/Literófilo dijo...

Se inmortalizó, y si, yo también siento lo mismo de Juan como que se murió un hermano mayor del que uno aprendía mucho, e igual que Luis Fer y Memo, a conseguir libros y bien caros.

phiblógsopho dijo...


Pero que los libros de DFW son inestimablemente baratos!!!

Escatonauta dijo...

LO QUE PASA CUANDO UN IGNORANTE SE ENTERA, POR MEDIO DE SUS AMIGOS, DE LA MUERTE DE UN GRANDE


Eulogy for DFW
(after Memito Batelanza)

Alas, poor DFW! I knew him, Juan: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is!
Where be your gibes now? your
gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?


Texas Apocalyptica
(by Tacio Medina)

Alas, poor Dallas-Fort Worth! I knew it well; a place of infinite guests, of most excellent fucks: it had borne me on its haunches time after time; and now, how much a whore in my intentions it is. Where be your eyes now? your glamors, your thongs? your batches of “merry men”, that were wont to break the table on an asshole?