One of the problems with a death by suicide is that it colors everything that came before it. It’s a black screen through which all of the person’s previous life and work are viewed. There is a good chance now that David Foster Wallace will be known by many as “that writer who committed suicide.” If that happens, it will add a new level of loss to an already tragic occurrence.
David Foster Wallace was an extraordinary mind and an extraordinary writer. I confess that his fiction was often too postmodern for my taste, but his journalism was nothing short of astounding. Sent to cover the Maine Lobsterfest for Gourmet magazine, he sent back 10,000 (amazing) words about the morality of boiling lobsters. He wrote about Dostoyevsky and the Adult Video Awards with equal aplomb and insight, taking both with the utmost seriousness, and pulling gems of humor and insight from each.
The word “genius” is thrown about with laughable frequency in our over-hyped era. Fashion designers and football coaches and media moguls are all lauded as geniuses. But David Foster Wallace really was a genius. His vision went deeper than even the most insightful people, and his descriptive powers were broader and richer. He was singular in his ability to draw, from seemingly mundane subjects, truths that affect everyone in the world. I think that is a true mark of genius.
I think I looked to Wallace as something of a model, which is why his death has affected me so deeply. Every time I saw him interviewed he seemed like such a gentle man. Profoundly learned and erudite, he wore his learning lightly. He was quick to laugh and joke, but not at the expense of others. He took the world very seriously, but himself not at all. At least that’s how it seemed.
Reports after his death paint a different picture. He had battled severe depression most of his life. In the last year or so his medication mysteriously stopped working. Apparently this left him a shattered man. His parents spoke of his death with a level of resignation one can only imagine comes from having seen their beloved son in agonizing pain.
I think that I always thought of David Foster Wallace as better than me. I don’t mean that in an envious or self-critical way (I have a healthy ego). That he was smarter than me, and a better writer than me, is obvious. But I also thought of him as kinder than me, bolder than me, more profoundly engaged in the world and in his times than me. And now that he is gone I feel a bit adrift in a way I never would have imagined.
I’m doing it now, aren’t I? Making his death the point, rather than his life. I guess all one can really do when someone you admire dies is to praise them, not bury them. So let me now praise David Foster Wallace. Let me repay the gift of humor and wisdom he brought into my life by passing it on to others. Please go buy some of David Foster Wallace’s books. You won’t regret it. His life is done now, but his incandescent light can still illuminate your life.
