David Foster Wallace has hanged himself

and I'm not sure anyone has noticed.

Salon noticed. The New York Times did, but it took them three paragraphs to mention that he had died, "an apparent suicide." ABC News mentions him on an In Memoriam page with a retired basketball coach and a former silent film actress. I don't wish to prioritize the merit of lives, but some words are needed here. But CNN? No sign. Google News will flash his name as "People in the News" at certain points during the day, but the number of articles about his death have clearly not hit critical mass on the news aggregator.

I'm a big blog reader--I'm accustomed to seeing not just one, but several (if not dozens) of articles and updates when a story hits. In fact, I've been seduced by it--by measuring the importance of stories by the mass of links discussing it. Maybe a new measure is needed.

What is public mourning for? I heard the news this morning, before leaving for a meeting, and felt hit. It's not necessarily that I'm a huge DFW fan. I've read Oblivion and I've read some of his Harper's articles. I've always admired him and I've felt good knowing that he's part of American letters--he has seemed to me the sort of writer who pushed American fiction forward, and I trusted his ability to hold that position open as one might take faith in a wooden dowel to hold open an old window.

But this morning I find that I need to tell folks: he hanged himself. His wife found him dead in their home. He had taken the semester off from teaching. These are the motes we're given, and were this a connect-the-dots I'd have enough for a line, leading nowhere, except to reprints of reviews of Infinite Jest.

A writer's death is not a lit quiz. It's not an "appraisal" (thanks, NY Times). It's the starting-point for a huge machine of analysis and biography, eventually, and that makes sense; regardless, what I want right now is a blogswarm, even a small one, sounding. That's what blogs are for: nobodies, pulling voices in chorus, generating from massive numbers of miniscule voices, perhaps, a redirection of the massive stream of American attention-management. I realize I've been an avid (and passive) consumer of that stream; I saw its flaws. I fucking teach classes about its flaws. But sometimes, when our infrastructure collapses, our first task is to start hacking some paths.