I don’t have anything useful to say about the suicide of David Foster Wallace, news of which has been widely if sketchily reported in the last 24 hours, except to say that it rattled me more than I’d have expected, and that most of my questions about it will likely never be answered. From my Book World days I have a galley of Infinite Jest signed by Wallace, and it’s an odd thing to hold it now and look at a name written in a dead man’s hand.
The Howling Fantods website has been collecting blogospheric and MSM reactions, obits, and commentary. It’s fascinating, in a somber way, to see how news like this spreads and what kinds of reactions it provokes. Worth reading if Wallace meant something to you, or if you’re curious about how the culture tries to take the measure of a writer.
