I am reading it, slooooooow-ly, and really don't have any plans to write about it when I'm done, since Lev Grossman clearly has the whole thing covered (kidding) (asshole) (incredibly great guy though) (grow some fucking hair) (a model of tonsorial integrity)...but I did want to register—actual circumstances of the composition notwithstanding, and ignoring altogether the various feints involved in the chapter in question,and all that—that I did/do take immense satisfaction in seeing that even from beyond the grave, David Foster Wallace denies that fucker James Frey the satisfaction of even acknowledging Frey's existence. I'm sure Frey is livid, and getting a new pissed-off tattoo as we speak. (The opportunity, such as it was, would have been in footnote nine of Chapter 9, page 73. The "Author's Foreword," which is a multivalent, as DFW would say, hoot.)
UPDATE/PERSONAL APPEARANCE NOTE: On Friday evening, April 15, at 7 p.m., New York's venerable Strand bookstore will be hosting a reading/discussion on Wallace and The Pale King. Through the intervention of my pal Charles Bock, author of Beautiful Children and one of the readers for the event, I have been invited to participate. And so I will. Other participants include literary critic Laura Miller and the above-cited Lev Grossman, gulp. It is true, I have my differences with the man, but this event will be about Wallace and not that, and I plan to discuss the porousness of the borders between fact (or "truth") and fiction within The Pale King itself and certain of the non-fiction I worked on with Wallace at Premiere. More info on the event here.