Great sadness: DFW eliminated his own map!?

I just learned that David Foster Wallace, author of Infinite Jest, died Friday, apparently by his own hand. I don’t even have words. It’s just too sad.

Other people have plenty of words though. A sample:

From Laura Miller at Salon:

However, all great writers — and I have no doubt that he was one — have a preeminent purpose: to tell the truth. David Foster Wallace’s particular vocation was to allow us to see just how fraught and complicated, how difficult yet how necessary, that telling had become — not just for him, but for all of us. What will we do without him?

More at the Howling Fantods, and also here.

I just can’t believe it.

Update: Maybe the best response I’ve seen (from Shakespeare via “anon” commenter #13):

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath bore me on his back a
thousand times, and now how abhorr’d in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it.

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