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  • Today on my way back from work I went to Barnes and Nobles. I was compelled to go to the information desk.

    “I have an unusual request.”

    “Go right ahead.”

    “I forgot the name of the author.”

    “Do you know the title of the book?”

    “I’m afraid not.”

    “Is there something to go by?”

    “The author has three names, and all three are being used. He is brilliant, and committed suicide maybe in 2007.”

    The man at the information desk shrugged his shoulders.

    “He published a short story collection with a title that had “genius” in it.”

    Again no recognition, just a strain on his face.

    “The novel I’m looking for is about tennis.”

    The man started typing.

    “But tennis is not in the title.”

    He stopped typing.

    In the end, I walked up to the second floor with another information desk manned by an older bearded guy. The moment I mentioned “genius” he said David Foster Wallace.

    “Thank God,” I said.

    And I paid my 17 bucks for the tomb of a book and went home with it and fed and walked the dog, and opened the book and started reading.

    “Oh my God,” I said aloud to myself . “Oh God, shit shit shit!”

    Will I ever dare to write fiction again? I honestly don’t know.
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