The Pale King

A series of events have dominated my Easter. I slept through, at least, the morning rain. Arsenal lost, which overjoyed me, I completed David Foster Wallace's unfinished novel and, oh yeah, it started raining again. The penumbra of the Pale King darkened the rest of my day. I keep plotting the trajectories of the characters that DFW proffered us inchoately. This then engendered considerable thought about the nature of memories. For instance, I submit that there was an occasion last week when I mused that i read Brief Interviews With Hideous Men at Midway Airport. No, not the entire collection, mind you, but that I had read such there, between flights. That can't be true as I was last there in October, 1998, a solid year before the book was published. The memory, though, is weirdly distinct. Upon further effort, I believe I was reading a story by Rick Moody in the Paris Review, the copy I had bought a few days earlier at John King Books in Detroit.