One cannot read David Foster Wallace without being obsessed

by images that are absurd, insane, brilliant and starkly original.

While themes of boredom and mindless entertainment might

seem unlikely candidates for inspiration, Wallace provides

a goldmine for the visual artist.  I am especially entranced

by his ability to find beauty in obscure information, pointless

lists, fragmented description, mundane detail and odd footnotes. 

His nightmarish (but often darkly hilarious) images from American

culture are panoramas of a contemporary dystopia.  Howling Fantods

attempts to pay tribute to this alarming vision.  Wallace says that we 

all have our little solipsistic delusions of utter singularity: that

only we hear the whiny pathos in a dog's yawn, the timeless

sigh in the opening of a hermetically sealed jar, the splattered

laugh of the frying egg, or the feeling of panic at sunset.  If

such is true, then our solipsism truly does bind us together.  It

is the way we can read Wallace without going mad; it is also

an inroad to an expansion of his compelling narrative and fantastic

imagery.