Farewell, David Foster Wallace

I am still trying to collect the ways that David Foster Wallace has changed my perspective on life and the way I approach my storytelling.  As he has been a rather recent discovery, I can't do justice, but all I know is that I can't remember a time that a figure whom I didn't know died that has left me so profoundly sad and unsettled.  He apparently hanged himself in his home.

The first writing of his I read was his May 21, 2005 Kenyon Commencement address.  I recently read his short story collection, Brief Interviews With Hideous Men and have been poking through his last published book, Oblivion, and his essays, A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, since I received them through the mail last week.  It feels as though a conversation with someone stopped abruptly, like there was a pause mid-sentence and then he was dead.  But at least I can continue to read.  

In the short spurts of time I've had in front of the computer today, I've written a couple thousand words in an attempt at gratitude for his work, what it has meant to me, the understanding it has brought to me.  But thus far, it is jumbled, bloated and ineloquent.  Perhaps it is enough for now to say that I am sad, but it seems wrong to say when there are family and loved ones of his who no doubt feel a much greater loss.

An excerpt from the above commencement speech:

This, like many clichés, so lame and unexciting on the surface, actually 

expresses a great and terrible truth. It is not the least bit coincidental 

that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot 

themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master. And the truth 

is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull 

the trigger.  

And I submit that this is what the real, no bullshit value of your liberal 

arts education is supposed to be about: how to keep from going through 

your comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, 

a slave to your head and to your natural default setting of being uniquely,

 completely, imperially alone day in and day out. That may sound like 

hyperbole, or abstract nonsense. Let's get concrete. The plain fact is that 

you graduating seniors do not yet have any clue what "day in day out" 

really means. There happen to be whole, large parts of adult American 

life that nobody talks about in commencement speeches. One such part 

involves boredom, routine, and petty frustration. The parents and older 

folks here will know all too well what I'm talking about.