When David Foster Wallace committed suicide, on September 12, 2008, at the age of 46, he put an abrupt and shocking end to what was already one of the most distinctive writing lives in contemporary America. Fans who knew his work tended to be passionate about it. If you weren’t drawn to his epic, ironic, lonely-in-the-crowd, cri-de-coeur of a novel Infinite Jest, you might have known him from “Consider the Lobster,” or “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” or another of the wry, footnoted essays that turned up from time to time in magazines like Harper’s.
Japan just opened to tourists for the first time since the coronavirus pandemic began, echoing the island country’s isolationist policies during the feudal era.
Flashy desalination technology is more costly and cumbersome than many other solutions.
Uncertainty is inherent to our Universe.
It turns out it’s hard to make work at an Amazon warehouse fun.