More than once I’ve told people that I’m incapable of being bored. That I’m not sure it’s ever happened to me. That I wish boredom would happen to me, since my real problem is that I never have time to catch up on all the staring-into-space and thinking I want to do.

Now this essay in the New York Times is arguing that boredom and creative introspection are the same thing.

And it references the unpublished, posthumous novel by David Foster Wallace, which is about boredom as both a scourge and a passageway to bliss.

But maybe the real auteur of boredom, if you believe our crush object Sam Anderson, has been Don DeLillo all along.

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