Alas, Poor Yorick

All of us here at Fort Saint Davids are collectively mourning the death of American author David Foster Wallace, a writer whose massive influence we’d be the first to admit is one of the primary reasons we’re here right now, writing anything remotely clever, like, ever. I can’t tell you how many times fellow Miltonian Matthew K. and myself have sat around, agitated over cups of coffee, bemoaning the state of Letters Today and wishing that we had lived in the Fill in the Blank Epoch when, inevitably, our whining comes to a screeching halt when it nearly hits the big massive Be Thankful That There’s Still: David Foster Wallace, the writer we were proud — always proud — to say was our writer, the one we’d show our kids, the one that made us say hah take your big dick Mailers and Updikes and shove ’em to our parents, our voice, our author. The world seems a lot quieter, and a lot lonelier, today. It feels emptier.

Here is Wallace’s 2005 Kenyon Commencement Address, in its entirety. We suggest giving it a read.


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