Why I Really Write, Part 9: David Foster Wallace, R.I.P.

I am really the last person on earth who should be writing this.

I can’t add to the blizzard of encomiums for the late David Foster Wallace, who died of an apparent suicide Friday night. I have read precious little of his work, had not met the man, and have no claim upon recognizing anyone’s greatness, even among those authors I have read widely and idolize.

And the title is a misnomer of sorts — it is not specifically because of Mr. Wallace’s genius that I am inspired to write, either in appreciation or disdain.

In short, I am woefully equipped to write about the man. But since I heard the news of this awful event, I’ve felt sick to my stomach. It’s as if someone I personally knew had hanged himself.

By all accounts, Wallace was a generous soul. Among many works he left behind, his now-famous commencement address to Kenyon College is a testament to his open-mindedness and degree of intellectualy honesty. His interviews, magazine articles and essays displayed a remarkable range and brainpower. His 2000 feature story on John McCain, "The Weasel, Twelve Monkeys and the Shrub," is required reading for those following the 2008 presidential campaign.

Of course, his magnum opus, "Infinte Jest," is certainly one of the most well-read cerebral novels of all time. (You usually don’t get many people to read 1,000-page books with 100+ footnotes.) In a sense, he was the Thomas Pynchon of his generation, or Pynchon had been the David Foster Wallace of his generation. He displayed more literary talent and smarts in one short story — hell, in one page — than I could ever hope for in a career.

But, as mentioned above, I have no expertise in assessing Wallace’s life or literary production.

I have a little experience with depression, however, and the more I read of his life, the more depressed I have become. He published his first book at 24, won a MacArthur "genius" award at 35, and could write for any publication he desired. Wallace had a teaching position in California and was beloved by students and faculty.

Having it all was not enough. Wallace had struggled with depression for two decades, and the last episode was too much for him to bear. He was all of 46. Through all of his pain, he wrote. He persevered until he could no longer.

So I do not write because David Foster Wallace inspired me through his style, intellect, wit, or otherwise. It wasn’t because he could turn a simple feature story about tennis into a cross between Hunter S. Thompson and Derrida, considered one of the better pieces of sports journalism the past decade. Nor is it because of his unstilting committment to probity, his questioning of widely held truths and striving for something not confined within the boundaries of the page.

It was the fact that this man, so blessed with talent and the will to turn it into art, did this despite the agony that daily living could present to him. He didn’t just churn stuff out because of his depression, though he could have, and he didn’t quit writing because of his depression, though he could have and nobody would have questioned him.

He kept writing, and kept his work at the highest possible standard because, I imagine, truth mattered more than anything. We should all be so enamored.