Too late.
Someone just wrote me the most beautiful/sad letter. Well email. It kind of resonated in a way I didn't expect. He's a really awkward, sweet, shy kind of guy and by all accounts we're just friends. Which to me means so much more than any kind of romantic thing. And he takes me seriously when a lot of people don't. But in his email he put this:
A few months ago, this writer, David Foster Wallace, committed suicide and I was listening to an old interview of his being replayed on the radio. It was from the mid-nineties, when he was a young writer, and he was saying, "When I was in my twenties, I looked around and all my friends were unhappy. It was hard to understand - we all had our health, our youth and, compared to how some people live in other parts of the world, we lived like kings - and yet everyone seemed dissatisfied with something."
I'll remember that for a very long time.
A few months ago, this writer, David Foster Wallace, committed suicide and I was listening to an old interview of his being replayed on the radio. It was from the mid-nineties, when he was a young writer, and he was saying, "When I was in my twenties, I looked around and all my friends were unhappy. It was hard to understand - we all had our health, our youth and, compared to how some people live in other parts of the world, we lived like kings - and yet everyone seemed dissatisfied with something."
I'll remember that for a very long time.