4 Reasons Why I Can’t Stop Referencing David Foster Wallace.

1- I’m a guy.

Yup, guys love DFW, women less and in her supposedly interesting article that I will never read again, Deirdre Coyle gives her honest reasons for not liking him. I understand because I feel the same about the Atwoods of the world.

DFW talks like a guy, for guys, and about guys, what more could a guy want. Yup, he’s our Erica Jong, but better, freeing literature and men from the oppressive constraints of masculinity. By putting our noses in our own shit, he is helping us take responsibility for what it means to be a man. By writing for us, he is loving us, and by loving us, he is liberating us.

2- He was brilliant.

The guy was a walking encyclopedia, and like Aristotle, his hair smelled of pulp and paper from the volumes of books stored in his head. His references are epic, obviously obsessive, which is proof for how much he cared for us. He wanted us to know, to deeply understand what he was driving at. No stone left unturned, irrespective of how onerous his footnotes were — now that is what I call devotion to your reader.

That kind of attention, not unlike Richard Kearney’s idea of incarnate presence that one has from having grieved the illusion of a more authentic encounter with another other at the end of history, must have been a heavy burden to bear.

His brilliance as a wordsmith is legendary, studied and pored over within the academia and beyond. And I feel like a neonate every time I sit at the keyboard to write, wanting to suckle at his genius.

3- His understanding of human nature.

As a clinical psychologist, no writer has taught me more about addiction, detox, mental illness, dysfunctional families, adolescent boys, delinquency, depression, anxiety, pharmacology, psychotherapy, support groups, parenting, childhood sexual abuse, and masculinity.

I would have exchanged all my years in graduate school for one year reading and discussing his stuff with other kindred souls. And come out of that year better equipped to help my clients struggling with all the above.

4- He’s dead.

When you’re dead, you’re safe; no one can touch you, wash your hair, untie your bandana, or critique your latest work. Nor can you destroy the illusions others have of you.

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