NYRB Classics collector. Reads anything, so long as it's good. Sometimes historian. Frequently grumpy: you've been warned. Also at aliceunderskies.tumblr.com.
I am not a huge DFW fan. I adore his essays but have yet to make it through his fiction. I read this mostly in response to my father, who knew him in college and was speaking often of him to me in May. It's a mixed experience of a book--it gives a true and incredible sense of the man behind the towering sentences; it really made me truly mourn Wallace as well as crave more of his work. The long parts of this book that were just DFW talking were brilliant and fascinating and absolutely joyous. The editorial asides and the interruptions of Lipsky matched that joy with a corresponding sense of ick. I can't remember when I last read a book that was so troublingly edited, and was consistently amazed by how little Lipsky seemed to listen to or understand DFW, not just in his at-the-time comments but even over a decade later. I was also equally troubled by my own motives in even reading the book--but that is a separate essay.