the author is dead
Dear David Foster Wallace,
You hanged yourself two days ago. Infinite Jest has been sitting in my room for about a year, looking brick-like and postmodern, and I have never worked up the courage to start it. Sorry, David Foster Wallace. I once read some of your short stories, and there was one - I can't remember its name - but anyway it was about a psychology patient and I read it in Borders, standing next to the 'W' shelf, pretending I could afford to buy it. The story stuck with me. It was piercing and unrelenting in its cynicism about both psychology and its patients. In fact it made me hugely uncomfortable, in a way that kept me thinking about the story, which is the mark of a good writer. I also read an essay or two in Consider The Lobster, and I would've read more but then I broke up with my boyfriend (whose book it was) and so I could not. David Foster Wallace, I'm sorry you are dead, and I'm also sorry I didn't get around to reading more of your work while you were alive.
Yours regretfully,
Anna
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Dear Kurt Vonnegut,
No. I still haven't read Slaughterhouse Five. Please don't look at me like that, Kurt Vonnegut. I'm very busy right now. Hope you're having fun in heaven or wherever. I'll read it soon, okay?
Yours procrastinatorily,
Anna
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Dear Colin Thiele,
Don't worry. I still remember you.
Yours in memoriam,
Anna
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Dear Sylvia Plath,
The other day I had to be interviewed by a Certificate IV student about my work. She said she'd requested to interview me because she was interested in poetry, and I'm working with words. I listed you as one of my influences. She looked at me sort of blankly. I said: 'Plath, you know, Sylvia Plath. She's a pretty famous poet.' She said: 'Oh, uh, yeah. I think my daughter might have read some of her poems.' She went to write down your name, then looked up and asked: 'So how do you spell "Plath"?'
Yours unbelievingly,
Anna
You hanged yourself two days ago. Infinite Jest has been sitting in my room for about a year, looking brick-like and postmodern, and I have never worked up the courage to start it. Sorry, David Foster Wallace. I once read some of your short stories, and there was one - I can't remember its name - but anyway it was about a psychology patient and I read it in Borders, standing next to the 'W' shelf, pretending I could afford to buy it. The story stuck with me. It was piercing and unrelenting in its cynicism about both psychology and its patients. In fact it made me hugely uncomfortable, in a way that kept me thinking about the story, which is the mark of a good writer. I also read an essay or two in Consider The Lobster, and I would've read more but then I broke up with my boyfriend (whose book it was) and so I could not. David Foster Wallace, I'm sorry you are dead, and I'm also sorry I didn't get around to reading more of your work while you were alive.
Yours regretfully,
Anna
---
Dear Kurt Vonnegut,
No. I still haven't read Slaughterhouse Five. Please don't look at me like that, Kurt Vonnegut. I'm very busy right now. Hope you're having fun in heaven or wherever. I'll read it soon, okay?
Yours procrastinatorily,
Anna
---
Dear Colin Thiele,
Don't worry. I still remember you.
Yours in memoriam,
Anna
---
Dear Sylvia Plath,
The other day I had to be interviewed by a Certificate IV student about my work. She said she'd requested to interview me because she was interested in poetry, and I'm working with words. I listed you as one of my influences. She looked at me sort of blankly. I said: 'Plath, you know, Sylvia Plath. She's a pretty famous poet.' She said: 'Oh, uh, yeah. I think my daughter might have read some of her poems.' She went to write down your name, then looked up and asked: 'So how do you spell "Plath"?'
Yours unbelievingly,
Anna