David Foster Wallace, one of my favorite authors, killed himself (apparently) this weekend. As a fan of his work, I’m pretty bummed about that. However, I suppose it is somewhat par for the course that a creative person be unhappy (see, well, all of history). I don’t know a thing about DWF personally. When I met him at a book signing he seemed happy enough, (well, he seemed exhausted) but how can you tell what a person is like if you meet him for 35 seconds.
In my write up of Julie Hecht, I said she seemed like a person I wouldn’t want to be friends with. From the very little information I gained about DFW, I suspect I could have been friends with him, although you never know. Perhaps he was suicidal all the time. Perhaps he had a depressive personality. Perhaps he used big words all the time and got really annoying. I’ll never know for sure, and that’s okay too.
I understand that depressed people can’t see past their depression. However, the thing that really bugs me about this apparent suicide is that his wife found him hanging. Now, I don’t know a thing about his marriage, but I can’t imagine how you could ever let your wife find you after you’ve killed yourself. It seems like an especially cruel thing to do to someone who (presumably) loves you.
Regardless, it won’t effect how I feel about his works, and maybe someday I’ll re-read Infinite Jest. I guess it’s best if you don’t get to meet your favorite authors after all.
[UPDATE: September 23, 2008]
I’ve been reading the obituaries of DFW, and learned that he had been on antidepressants for years. While I stand by my above comments, it does explain a lot. It’s a wonder that he was able to be creative at all.









