David Foster Wallace is an author who means a lot to me. I just woke up and learned (via Twitter) that he died by his own hand yesterday. “Infinite Jest” is my desert island book: I’ve read it at least three times, and will continue to return to it for the rest of my life. So much of his more recent work lays bare his constant struggles to write in the face of the internal critic, so that theme is particularly bracing right now as I work through my PhD thesis.

In other, far more trivial news, the blog (and domain) is back. It disappeared for too long because of some mixup, probably as unforeseen fallout from my transfer between domain registrars.