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There is a new, long, essay in the New Yorker about David Foster Wallace and, to a great degree, his work on his final, unfinished novel, although it seems to be more about the life and writing of David Foster Wallace and the depression that lead to his suicide this past fall.

I’m new to Foster Wallace. Have been reading everything I can get my hands on since I learned of him from another writer I respect. I like Foster Wallace a lot, am sorry that I wasn’t aware of him before his death, and doubt I’ll get through everything he’s written by the time the year ends. Very challenging, but very satisfying reading

I found the essay to be quite good, but the sub-title—David Foster Wallace’s struggle to surpass “Infinite Jest.”—is mis-leading and not necessarily, to steal a phrase from Ed Ricketts, and what is apparent was the aim of DFW’s writing, a “true thing.”