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Make your fiction count

I don't read a lot of fiction; I tend to stick with a handful of my favorite writers and read whatever books they release. This usually means I read fiction about once a year.

One writer whose books I buy on the day they are released is David Foster Wallace. Scott at Baboon Palace links to a nifty discussion of Wallace's oeuvre in n+1:
Where to go after Infinite Jest? David Foster Wallace’s 1996 opus now looks like the central American novel of the past thirty years, a dense star for lesser work to orbit. More than that: even the writers from whom he borrowed and stole are coming to seem like satellites. Take Don DeLillo, whose Logos College Wallace tore down brick by brick and rebuilt as the Enfield Tennis Academy. The coach who observes practice from a Melvillean crow’s nest; the athlete who would rather do play-by-play than play; the apocalyptic war games; even the unlikely construction, “Everything he knew about x could be inscribed on the rim of a shotglass with a blunt crayon”—all this and more traveled straight from DeLillo’s End Zone (a wonderful and underrated novel) into Infinite Jest, but Wallace is so securely his own writer, so natural and idiosyncratic in his prose, so committed to his principles of expansion and a circling, shambling refusal to simplify, that the influence seems to flow both ways, and much of early DeLillo comes to read like a ramping-up toward Wallace.
The whole article is here; definitely worth the read if you're a geek like me.

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