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I don't often comment on things of a personal nature on the site. That's more for Twitter, or you know, actual talks with actual friends in actual places. But I have to note the passing of an author who had a big influence on me, as a writer, and as a person. David Foster Wallace died on Friday, having taken his own life. He was 46. He wrote remarkable books, including: The Broom of the System, The Girl with Curious Hair, Infinite Jest, Oblivion, and A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. Like many others, IJ was the one that really completely floored me. Still does, and I've read it more than a dozen times (OK, probably quite a few more times, particularly if you count those times when I'd start reading from a random page, and who's counting anyhow?). It's become part of my DNA. I figured DFW struggled with depression; you can see it haunting him during his appearance on the Charlie Rose show, the personal doubt and self-consciousness. But this is truly a shock, and a terrible loss to literature. And, though it sounds faintly ridiculous, it feels like a personal loss, too. Vale, Dave.
"My eyes are closed; the room is silent. 'I cannot make myself understood, now.'"
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