Now: John Updike wrote and published an enormous amount of fiction and non-fiction, in defiance of the fact that seemingly everything he had to say about the world had been said more eloquently by someone else (see: suburban domesticity breeds conformity and destroys the soul) or was insultingly stupid (see: women are devouring monsters, out to destroy men by withholding the sex they deserve or else selfishly gratifying their own bestial lust at the expense of the poor helpless men who can’t resist their charms). His form was mostly devoid of worthwhile content and, ultimately, not that exciting or innovative as pure form. (Ah, pretty prose which utilizes imagery well! How very rare! Surely we should not expect anything more from a book, when this is on offer? Tell us more of this “adultery” of which you speak, and how it does not solve everything, but is so hot; we are intrigued.) Updike lived a long life and died of natural causes.
None of the above-listed things were true of David Foster Wallace.