In 2013 I read The Pale King by David Foster Wallace.
Unfinished though it may be, this book contains some of the most insightful and well written prose of contemporary literature.
One review mentioned that reading this book was akin to having found a beautiful, shattered urn and sitting in awe at the brilliance of the individual pieces. We as readers are able only to imagine - albeit, with inherent inaccuracy - how beautiful the urn might have been when it was still intact.
I disagree that review.
This book is beautiful, but not because it is broken or fragmented. It is beautiful in the same way that Michelangelo's "prisoners" are beautiful. This book is an unfinished masterpiece, but it is still the work of a master. David Foster Wallace had chosen his stone, begun carving out the images and details, and was shaping his vision. We are left with something that is truly great, not because it is finished, but because its unfinished beauty gives a glimpse of how the artist worked and where his genius might have led had he continued.
All this being said, like Michelangelo's prisoners, The Pale King does seem oddly complete in its own right. And I cannot speak highly enough about this man's writing and the brilliance with which he attempted to express his ideas.