"Name me one contemporary fiction writer who required his college training to be a writer, and if you say David Foster Wallace I swear to god I'm going to pumpkin your house. I think the only reason The New Yorker keeps shoving him down my throat is because he-- the guy, not his work-- is an academic's aspirational fantasy, a compromise between two worlds: mild mannered writing professor by day, brooding and non-balding antihero by night, a last chance at "I can be cool, too" for the late 30s associate professor who thinks that intelligence alone is insufficient reason to be labeled a man."
For reference, if you've been living healthy, this reads like a dispatch from foreign lands. "What is this Nwu Yorkie you speak of?" Such a curious culture!
I only hear about DFW from leftists who think it's cool to pretend to be a rightist for some insane reason.