You may have heard that writer David Foster Wallace committed suicide in September. The author of several critically acclaimed (although “rapturously acclaimed” might be more accurate) books and essays hanged himself in his home at the age of 46. Apparently he had suffered from severe depression for over two decades. Antidepressants, two hospitalizations and even a series of electroshock treatments, the depression treatment of last resort, had not alleviated the depression and anxiety.
I have to confess that I didn’t know anything about David Foster Wallace or his writing before reading about his suicide. Despite a Bachelor of Arts in literature, I’m not much of a straight fiction writer, preferring genre fiction (mysteries, sci-fi and fantasy, thrillers, etc.). But once I started reading about him, three things clearly and poignantly stood out in the stories people told about him: he was funny, sweet and self-effacing.
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