Thanks to Ike, the weather today has been gray and rainy. Luckily Kwe and I got in our two mile walk yesterday afternoon. Today, we’ve had to settle for short jaunts outside, while I try to keep the rain off my glasses and Kwe tries to keep the rain out of his ears.
Speaking of Ike, thankfully the damage was not as severe as it could have been. I lived in Denton, TX (45 minutes from Dallas) when I was attending UNT for grad school, so I have some friends who braved the weather this weekend in Houston.
I consider myself and animal advocate, and I don’t really understand how you hire someone who is unfamiliar with animals to run Animal Control for the city of Indianapolis.
Sadly, the literary community has suffered another devestating loss. David Foster Wallace killed himself September 12, 2008. I first became aware of Wallace when I took a seminar at MSU about the power of humor in non-fiction. The professor leading the class gave us Wallace’s essay, Consider the Lobster. His work is brilliant and difficult and I am sorry to hear of his death.
Every author wants to sell books, to please his or her publisher, to reap critical accolades and to bask in the admiration of colleagues, and Wallace did want those things, at the same time that he was more than a little embarrassed by such desires and acutely aware of the fact that none of it could make him happy. However, all great writers — and I have no doubt that he was one — have a preeminent purpose: to tell the truth. David Foster Wallace’s particular vocation was to allow us to see just how fraught and complicated, how difficult yet how necessary, that telling had become — not just for him, but for all of us. What will we do without him?