Voici dans le désordre les premières phrases de quelques textes du regretté David Foster Wallace publiés dans des revues. A boire frais voire glacé.
THE PLANET TRILLAPHON AS IT STANDS IN RELATION TO THE BAD THING • Tin House Issue #40, Summer 2009
I’ve been on antidepressants for, what, about a year now, and I suppose I feel as if I’m pretty qualified to tell what they’re like.
ON HIS DEATHBED, HOLDING YOUR HAND, THE ACCLAIMED NEW YOUNG OFF-BROADWAY PLAYWRIGHT’S FATHER BEGS A BOON • Tin House, Issue #1, Spring 1999
Listen: I did despise him. I do.
The String Theory, Esquire, juillet 1996
When Michael T. Joyce of Los Angeles serves, when he tosses the ball and his face rises to track it, it looks like he’s smiling, but he’s not really smiling — his face’s circumoral muscles are straining with the rest of his body to reach the ball at the top of the toss’s rise. He wants to hit it fully extended and slightly out in front of him — he wants to be able to hit emphatically down on the ball, to generate enough pace to avoid an ambitious return from his opponent. 
Federer as Religious Experience, NYT, 20 août 2006
Almost anyone who loves tennis and follows the men’s tour on television has, over the last few years, had what might be termed Federer Moments. These are times, as you watch the young Swiss play, when the jaw drops and eyes protrude and sounds are made that bring spouses in from other rooms to see if you’re O.K.
On the (nearly lethal) comforts of a luxury cruise, Harper’s Magazine, janvier 1996
I have now seen sucrose beaches and water a very bright blue. I have seen an all-red leisure suit with flared lapels. I have smelled suntan lotion spread over 2,100 pounds of hot flesh. I have been addressed as « Mon » in three different nations. I have seen 500 upscale Americans dance the Electric Slide. I have seen sunsets that looked computer-enhanced. I have (very briefly) joined a conga line. 
‘Plain old untrendy troubles and emotions’, The Guardian, 20 septembre 2008 (la semaine suivant sa mort)
There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, « Morning, boys, how’s the water? » And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, « What the hell is water? »
 &  Textes publiés dans des versions plus longues dans le recueil A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, traduit en France au Diable Vauvert sous le titre Un truc soit-disant super auquel on ne me reprendra pas. Le second texte est sans conteste le reportage le plus drôle qu’il m’ait été donné de lire.