David Foster Wallace Fills Me with Hope

Making last minute edits (my specialty) to my writing before a storytelling show in 2018. Photo by Elizabeth van Os.

Opening the flimsy DIY-hinged door of the Little Free Library.

And there it was — David Foster Wallace’s book of short stories, Oblivion. And I thought, ‘Well isn’t he famous? And contemporary?

Might be nice to be *those* things. I’ll grab it.’ 

So I did. 

The book sat on my desk for a long time. 

David Foster Wallace. Hm. Oblivion. What could it be about? Such a provocative yet vague title for a short story book. I’d open it occasionally, but then I’d get intimidated. The print was small and the book was long. The sentences seemed dense and I’d paw the first pages, the middle pages, but then get sleepy like an old cat, and bat it away.

But the day came. It was David’s turn. I had read the other books. He was up in the Netflix queue of my mind. 

I began to read and I was FILLED. With so much sadness. And gladness. And all of the feelings in between that don’t rhyme at all. My God does this man know life!! And writes for no one but the smartest. The deepest feeling, the loneliest people. The seekers. The never-satiated people. The people who see through everything.

He lived lifetimes in short stories. I admired him. I pitied him. I thanked him for traveling to depths of cynicism I hadn’t dared, but he knew a bleakness I had seen. I knew this darkness but. I’d never speak it. His writing was profane. And I thought. He’s famous????? Then, by GOD! There is space! For all of us! There is room for me! I felt liberated by his caustic characters who seemed only loosely tethered to the world. They gave me permission to encounter all of myself.

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