david foster wallace

A few weeks ago, the New Yorker published an article about David Foster Wallace and his unfinished novel, The Pale King. And man, it was a gutpunch to finally have to deal with the fact that he really is gone, what is written is written, and there will be no more. The article goes into some detail on Wallace's battle with depression, and the sorts of things that triggered it. And these things were much deeper than the "life sucks" template. The burden of genius is something I'll obviously never have to deal with, but it's pretty clear that it killed David Foster Wallace. 

Will Leitch summed it up nicely:

I just finished reading the New Yorker's epic profile of David Foster Wallace, and I will say this: I have never been happier to reside in the Blissful Mediocre. DFW was so good that it wasn't enough to say something no one had said before; he forced himself to try to invent an entirely new way of saying it. That's the type of thing that will drive a man mad. It's hard enough to even make sense, let alone try to change the fashion in which humans communicate, avoid saying something any other person has ever said and the way they said it. Christ. It makes my brain bleed just thinking about it. David Foster Wallace was the guy from Pi, only with words instead of numbers. (Though he was into numbers too.)

There are many, many times I'm pleased not to be very smart. Reading that story was definitely one of them. Thank God I'm a hack!

Amen, brother. But considering I'm magnitudes dumber than Leitch, what does that make me?