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Rumpus Book ClubDavid Foster Wallace’s Cock
“And this is why I suppose I care. Despite all his literary physiognomy, (David Foster) Wallace wasn’t the kind of brawling dick-swinger to go around saying “Who’s the champ? Who’s the champ? I’ll take on all comers” all the time. And just because this wasn’t the case doesn’t somehow make him a writer who is “too cool” for eroticism, as Roiphe wants to claim.”
Seth Colter Walls responds to Katie Roiphe’s New York Times essay on the fear of sex among the new generation of white male writers at The Awl.
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