I was kind of lonely when Jasper Johns died, a few months ago, because his art just didn't matter to anyone in my life the way it mattered to me. Similarly, this probably won't mean to you what it means to me, but
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Yeah. And more recently he'd written some really precise fiction and non-fiction about depression. And I loved his big, baggy novels. And - well, hell.
No, really? Was there a particular reason? His essay on being stuck on a cruise ship was hysterically funny and awful all at once. I wasn't wild about his fiction but his essays could be really amusing.
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But Wallace . . . I'm sorry, dear. What a waste, and a loss. How sad that he lost his struggle.
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And yes, a sad waste. And infuriating, too: goddamnit, how could he take himself away from us?!
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