Too Much Information by John Jeremiah Sullivan
After polishing off Pulphead, one can be forgiven for seeking a little more Sullivan, and you can only imagine the gleeful eep! sound my brain made when, after a quick googling, it was discovered that he a) reviewed DFW’s Pale King and b) was as big a howling fantod as you can hope for among the ultragood. (Matched only (and perhaps bested) by Zadie Smith’s long piece at the end of Changing My Mind.) Sullivan on Wallace. Who could ask for anything more?
Here’s a thing that is hard to imagine: being so inventive a writer that when you die, the language is impoverished. That’s what Wallace’s suicide did, two and a half years ago. It wasn’t just a sad thing, it was a blow.
And then, after moving on in to Pale King territory:
He was a writer who in fighting to rise above the noise of his time remained hopelessly of it, susceptible to its voices even while trying to master them. His reality, as he once wrote, had been “MTV’d.” This is why, like no one else, he seems to speak from inside the tornado.