I’m so bummed to see that one of my favorite non-fiction writers ever, David Foster Wallace, died this past weekend, at age 46. Suicide. I’m kind of at a loss for words.
He wrote novels as well, obviously, but his essays with their zillion hilarious footnotes always stuck with me since first beginning to study creative non-fic years ago. A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again should be on your Must Read Someday list, if you haven’t yet. Both the book and the essay itself are utterly fantastic.
Sigh.
4 comments:
That was a blow. I saw him read twice.
His father said he'd struggled with depression for twenty years.
Twenty years IS a long time to be depressed. I'm kind of depressed just thinking about it.
I know, can you believe this?? It's so sad, and such a reminder that depression is serious. ...Twenty years is one hell of a long time. Breaks my heart for him and his family.
It's crazy to me, too, that people who are such comic geniuses, the people who make us laugh and laugh, can be so sad internally. (Chris Farley, etc.)
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