David Foster Wallace

I have avoided trying to write anything about David Foster Wallace because it makes me cry. A lot. When a person of, by all accounts, immeasurable intellect and talent kills themselves, it strikes me as one of the most profoundly sad moments imaginable. It certainly makes one angry, incensed even, when a person so endowed with enviable qualities brutally extinguishes those qualities before time or accident steps in. But the most frightening notion, not my own but one expressed by a commentator, is that if this guy who saw everything with such amazing clarity and empathy couldn't stand to be in this world anymore, what the fuck does that mean for the rest of us?

Of course, reason takes over and I realize neither I nor any other dilettante will ever experience, as a result of the author's suicide, the terrible uncertainty or grief to the degree that his family will. And I know that he created a body of work that will live on and be relevant for many years. And I understand that suicide isn't about rational judgement, nor is it a clear-headed statement about the world or the human experience. Most of all, I know that the residual pain of a suicide, the corollary infliction of ineffable psychic wounds on those who love you, is actually an act of extreme cruelty. I cannot and do not want to imagine the horrific psychological turmoil that would cause someone, however unintentionally, to inflict that pain. So, I simply try not to let my tears cloud my vision as I drive down the road listening to one more eulogy on public radio.