Via basically everybody, there's a lengthy essay about David Foster Wallace at The New Yorker. What little I read is about his final unfinished novel, The Pale King, of which you can read a lengthy excerpt.

I have not read the excerpt, nor do I expect I will be able to any time soon. They're publishing it next year, I guess, but I probably won't be able to read it then, either. (I suppose the most surprising thing is finding out after learning about this stuff today just how raw the wound still is. Of how much there is to be said and how better it is not to say it.)