David Foster Wallace, RIP

I was deeply shocked and saddened to read that writer David Foster Wallace took his own life this past weekend. The death of such a talent is always a loss, but the manner of his passing is particularly troubling. One feels as though we lost one of the good guys; like one of the lights has gone out.

It would not surprise anyone who read him, I think, to know that he wrestled with his demons. But that this was the answer he finally chose — that all his extraodinary ability and intellect couldn’t swerve him from this course — is upsetting to me on a level I cannot fully articulate.

He is most remembered as a novelist, particularly as the author of Infinite Jest, which was something of a publishing sensation in its time. While his fiction could be brilliant, I always believed his true gift could be seen in his essays. They are models of thoughtful, serious writing, while nevertheless humorous and idiosyncratic in a way that can’t be taught.

I whole-heartedly recommend his two collections of essays, Consider the Lobster and A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, which between them contain ruminations on the ethics of boiling lobsters, the existential horror of luxury cruises, the humor of Franz Kafka, and the future of American fiction.

For those who prefer to dip a toe in before jumping into the water, try this piece from the New York Times on Roger Federer, whether you have any interest in tennis or not.

Finally, I should mention his commencement address at my alma mater, delivered two years after I graduated. It is a stunning meditation on how to live a moral and examined life, made all the more impressive when one considers the torrent of platitudes that usually attend such an occasion.

Writing like this, rare indeed in today’s world, reveals not just intelligence but wisdom. It reveals someone who has thought deeply on how to live. And I suppose it is why when I heard when and how he died, it struck me like a blow.

Resquiat in pace.