Regarding self-righteous, smarmy obit writers
The author David Foster Wallace killed himself recently and Guy Adams writes in The Independent, “for all his natural ability and occasional brilliance, Wallace never lived up to the fullness of his talent, or the haunting reach of his possibilities.” Guy then goes on about something on the unreached potential, bla, bla, ubiquitous, hollow “generation x” reference and that the author “only” had two novels on his CV, and, um, excuse me asshole, please go find a ballpoint pin and jab it into your trachea.
You write two of the most influential pieces of literature in modern times, suffer through the tidal wave of inane reviews by self-indulgent literary reviewers who couldn’t publish and see if you want to kill yourself. I already had to live through enough this B-level postmortem crap after Curt Cobain used a shotgun.
Give the trite finger wagging a rest.
The situation is like this: they hired our parents to destroy this world, and now they’d like to put us to work rebuilding it, and — to add insult to injury — at a profit.
