Words.
Though I'm no longer the rabid fan I once was, finding out David Foster Wallace had committed suicide was still a shock. All I know of the man comes from his works and the handful of interviews I've read; reading Infinite Jest, I felt as if it was coming from someone who knew pain and sadness and whatever else, but that that someone still "got" it. Life. Even in the darker elements of his fiction, there was an underlying current that life was something worth living. Indeed, there was a time where, if I was feeling down about something, I could cheer myself up by simply reading a random section of IJ, or picking out one of his short stories or essays.
It's been some time since I've done that. That was long ago for Wallace, too, I suppose. I wish I could think that if he once was able to find meaning and reason in life, then he always could. He couldn't. We can keep trying, though.
It's been some time since I've done that. That was long ago for Wallace, too, I suppose. I wish I could think that if he once was able to find meaning and reason in life, then he always could. He couldn't. We can keep trying, though.