Nuclear and Toxic Waste Book

I think I've come a little bit closer to defining what it is I love about great writing -- I love to learn a little something, I love to lose a breath over an ingenious construction of words, I love an author who welcomes me into a room peopled with ideas that surprise me. I love John D'Agata. Like, almost physically. Like, watch out, John, you are right now living in my town, and I could find you. Alright, I tried to be cute and look you up in the phone book, but you're not listed, but I found the listing for your office in EPB, and I could conceivably drive by every day on my way to work if I didn't mind that two mile detour through collegetown traffic. But all that would be silly, because what I really love is his fervent attitude about the essay. D'Agata's essay refuses to follow form; his conclusion refuses to recap his intro, his outline is beside the point; his facts are researched and justified, but their role is more character than bullet point. His pseudo-facts play the straight man, honest and accurate and ridiculous. Plus, on top of this incredible, irreverent essay construction, what he's saying is just as enchanting as how he's saying it.

You might say D'Agata got lucky, finding himself in Vegas with a national headline concerning nuclear waste on his left and a suicide on his right, but really, all he did was pay attention. And then he asked a lot of questions. And only now and then did they get answered, but more often than not, the not-answer was answer enough. And the ridiculous things (like creating a warning sign that will survive and communicate for 10,000 years) made him chuckle through the knuckleheads he interviewed, and the sad things (a 16-year-old suicide in the city boasting the highest number of suicides per capita in the country) made him weep poetry. And when was the last time you read an essay that took you to such emotional extremes? Essays aren't supposed to do that, they're supposed to be little theses with facts and logical argument -- no crying.
I'm off to read D'Agata's other book of essays, Halls of Fame: Essays, where it seems to me he's doing some Anthony Bourdain-style visits to various halls of kitsch. I'm looking forward to his sharing with me his curiosity, his capacity for wonder, that informs his writing and makes it feel like I'm not learning anything, just staring at his open palms with my mouth agape, wondering what's next.