Joshua Thorin Messer

The man who showed me that it was still possible to write Great Fiction is dead. The man who proved to me that fiction could be meaningful, challenging, literary, Important, and still be asphyxiatingly funny, wild, relevant, and FUN is dead. The man who made me think that writing still mattered is dead. The man who convinced me that being a writer was still possible and meaningful is dead.

David Foster Wallace is dead.

George Denis Patrick Carlin (May 12, 1937 – June 22, 2008)

Requiescat in pace, you motherfucking cocksucker.

Kurt Vonnegut has joined the ever-growing list of Dead White Males. Now who will continue the battle against creeping mediocrity?

He wanted us to say it. Everyone else said it, and I resisted because I can’t imagine Kurt would really want us all to mindlessly obey his fictional commands, and yet I choose to obey because it is beautiful and terrible:

So it goes.

• William Shakespeare: Dead. White. Male.
• Ben Jonson: Dead. White. Male.
• Howard Phillips Lovecraft: Dead. White (hoo-boy was he white). Male.
• James Joyce: Dead. White. Male.
• Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, 18th Baron of Dunsany: Dead. White. Male.
• C.S. Lewis: Dead. White. Male.
• J.R.R. Tolkien: Dead. White. Male.
• Henry Miller: Dead. White. Male.
• Phillip K. Dick: Dead. White. Male.
• William Burroughs: Dead. White. Male.
• Douglas Adams: Dead. White. Male.

I’m beginning to sense a trend here. A lot of these guys are Irish. But seriously, Johnny Cash really belongs on this list but I decided to keep it to the literary persuasion. And most of the actors I truly admire are still living (but still white and male), although probably not for a whole lot longer. But here is the kicker:

• Murakami Haruki: Living. Japanese. Male.

What is it that people say about 2 out of 3?