David Foster Wallace
(about whom more will no doubt be said in a long, loving, though ultimately unsuccessful blog entry, the blog entry’s ‘failure’ being due to the author’s desire to adequately express not only an admiration bordering on reverence, but to do so in so persuasive a fashion that anyone reading said blog entry will be instantly converted to the view that DFW’s suicide is one of the few genuine (and it is, I think, ultimately sad that there is now something inherently fake about this word) losses to literature (and therefore the world, since this what the aforementioned category contains) in recent years)
reading 1) a very funny piece about baton-twirling and 2) an equally funny about cabin-service so caring it makes you feel uncared for. Recorded in 1997 at the San Diego Museum of Contemporary Art.
More on DFW at