Over the weekend, the world learned that writer David Foster Wallace hanged himself on Friday at his home in California. I haven’t read his mammoth novel Infinite Jest — and I doubt I ever will just because I almost never commit that kind of time and attention to a work of fiction, for some reason — but I was a big fan of his nonfiction, especially his essays for Harper’s that are collected in the book “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again” (that book, along with “Infinite Jest” and most of his other work is available at the Monroe County library). The title essay describes Wallace taking a cruise and attempting to interview the captain about the crew’s working conditions and it’s hysterically funny, although the cruise industry probably didn’t think so. Another piece in that book describes Wallace visiting the Illinois State Fair in all its Midwestern glory. I’ve also enjoyed his more recent work, collected in “Consider the Lobster” — the title essay from that book caused a huge flap when it was published in Gourmet magazine. Maybe I’ll add “Infinite Jest” to the list of books to take on a six-month RV trip, along with the Shelby Foote Civil War trilogy. My theory on that has always been you’d want to keep yourself occupied for a long time with the number of books you can fit in a milk crate.