himself

As you’ve probably heard, it sounds like writer David Foster Wallace hung himself on Friday night. His wife found him.

Wallace wrote some of my favorite books. He was an incredible show-off who often seemed determined to frustrate readers rather than entertain them. Those who hung in there with him were rewarded with hilarious, insightful and touching prose. You couldn’t help share his joy for language and wordplay. He had few peers and was quite possibly the literary voice of my generation.

What is it that makes geniuses so unbearably unhappy? Did the man peak too early? Was he too sensitive and overcome with the sadness that the rest of us ignore in order to get through any given day? Did he feel like he was too defined by his accomplishments and was no longer able to be a normal person? All I know is that it is a fucking waste of a great mind.

Below is a quote about from Infinite Jest. Hal, the speaker, is a high-school tennis champion who is doing some soul-searching:

Winning two and three upset matches, feeling suddenly so loved,so many talking to you as if there is love. But always the same, then. For then you awaken to the fact that you are loved for winning only. The two and three wins created you, for people. It is not that the wins made them recognize something that existed unrecognized before these upset wins. The from-noplace winning created you. You must keep winning to keep the existence of love and endorsements and the shiny magazines wanting your profile.

Maybe David Foster Wallace felt like that. Someone who could intuit that kind of sadness and angst probably experienced it as well.

I haven’t felt this much loss for someone I didn’t know since Kurt Cobain died. I wish Wallace knew how much happiness and awe he inspired in his readers. I know several people who consider finishing Infinite Jest as as one of their biggest accomplishments.

I may have to read it again now.

RIP DFW.