To say that David Foster Wallace's suicide last week, at age 46, is a tragedy for his family and friends is, of course, a colossal understatement. To say it is sad for his legions of fans is similarly obvious. But while I didn't know
Wallace personally and knew only some of his work—I'll admit to never having gotten through Infinite Jest, though his take on lobstering (“Consider the Lobster') stays with me—“Is it all right to boil a sentient creature alive just for our gustatory pleasure? … Is the previous question irksomely PC or sentimental”—it seems that the passing of a writer praised by Michiko Kakutani (no less) as “a pushing-the-envelope postmodernist” reminds us, ironically enough, of the old-fashioned ways that have made our business great.
To wit: despite the New York Observer's contention that Wallace had “lots” of editors because he published in magazines, in a two-decade book publishing career, he worked with just two book editors: Gerry Howard, who published The Broom of the System in 1987, and Little, Brown's Michael Pietsch, neither of whom were big shots at the time. Despite many forays and inquiries from “name” agents, Wallace stayed loyal to his representative, Bonnie Nadell, who discovered his work in the slush pile when she was a newbie at the Frederick Hill Agency, where she is now a partner. Despite mammoth critical success, cultlike status with passionate readers and good sales (an unusual combination, to say the least), Wallace paid no attention to contracts, often working without one, says Nadell. But no. Wallace's book deals were made the old-fashioned way, over lunch. “Michael would say, 'How about this much?' and I'd say, 'Oh, come on, how about a little more?' ” Nadell recalls. Needless to say, there was no discussion of BookScan numbers or platforms or marketing plans for the writer Howard called “a newly hatched chick… abashed by everything.” On occasion, Nadell says, she would convince Wallace to make certain appearances—he did once sit for an interview with Charlie Rose—but mostly, publicists learned to take no for an answer. Just last summer, which we can now surmise was a rough, emotional time for him, Wallace turned down TheColbert Report, even though, Nadell says, he was a Stephen Colbert fan. “Little, Brown knew who and what he was,” she says.
Clearly, Wallace was a writer of the old school: private, emotional, “in his head.” And just as clearly, the publishing world into which he was welcomed was similarly old-fashioned. He wrote the books he wanted, and two brave publishers published them, marketing be damned. Further, despite what some critics said at the time, Wallace's books were actually edited; as Gerry Howard suggested to the Observer, Wallace would often argue passionately for his words—and win—but at least someone cared enough to argue back.
In these very, very difficult times—a few weeks ago, B&N's Joe Lombardi told analysts that ours is the worst retail environment for books in 30 years—it's all too easy to put the focus on the business part of publishing. And surely, marketing and publicity and distribution and platforms do make a difference. But if David Foster Wallace's life and career can teach us anything, it's that we are also in the business of finding, nurturing and disseminating writers and their ideas. Even, or especially, when those writers are complicated, and their ideas difficult.
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