First, seriously: Fuck you, depression.

To think what else Wallace might’ve written had he stuck around is to court despair. I read and loved Infinite Jest a few years ago, but have kind of stayed away from the rest of his pile in an only half-conscious desire to ration what little material Wallace left behind. That’s probably a mistake.

In this book of essays, he’s at the top of his game. It’s like watching Jordan play basketball: nobody else was even engaged in the same activity. He’s just that good. The topics vary wildly:

• there’s a personal memoir of tennis and weather;
• a discussion of the relationship between television, irony, and (then-) modern fiction in America;
• a screamingly funny travel piece about visiting the Illinois state fair;
• a fascinating discussion of poststructuralism and the so-called “death of the author” in literary theory;
• one of the best “behind the scenes” film articles I’ve ever read, about David Lynch shooting Lost Highway;
• a lengthy discussion of the realities of professional tennis as they relate to then-rising pro Michael Joyce; and, finally,
• the eponymous piece about “managed fun” aboard a 7-day luxury Caribbean cruise.

It was, predictably, the final essay that pushed me to read this book now; “A Supposedly Fun Thing…” would be great even with no personal experience, but reading it after having done such a cruise makes it even more clear how perfectly right all his observations were.

This guy really had no peers at all. Even if some of the topics above strike you as banal, or as overly academic — the poststructuralism bit ran in the Harvard Review initially; it’s deep water — I assure you they’re captivating when Wallace gets ahold of them. Reading him is an exercise, for me at least, of muttering “Holy Shit!” every few minutes at yet another brilliant turn of phrase or previously unconsidered insight. The words are delicious, and the essays just get better upon reflection or rereading. This is what great writing looks like.