June 2010 David Markson died in.
It would be fitting if his gravestone had "Wittgenstein" misspelled on it.
As he suggested The Recognitions was misspelled on Gaddis'.
As soon as it was established that I had an enormous, blush-inducing crush on David, he promptly pulled a salacious book from the sexuality section, written by an old Playboy Bunny, in which she describes not only how cool and smart David was, but how impressive a lover.
Said Theresa, five decades his junior.
Pretty much the high point of experimental fiction this century, David Foster Wallace called Wittgenstein's Mistress.
It is and it is not a sad day when an old man passes away. But I will remember him wonderfully, well, and long.
Jeff Laughlin obit of David Markson at the Awl