Read the NY Times story about Wallace's last days and decide whether you really want to judge him with the words "stupid bastard."
I'm referring specifically to suicide and not the man he was preceding his decision to end it all. I think that leaving your lifeless body hanging for your wife to find is a little selfish. And I love David Foster Wallace. Stupid also refers to the waste factor. He could have continued to write amazing books. The end.
Also, I understand that depression is an enormously complicated beast and I mean no disrespect to Mr. Wallace or his family. To be completely uneloquent, the situation just sucks.
It sucks to find that life really is pointless and know that you've got at least 40 more empty years of it before expiring naturally. Perhaps, on some level, he knew this before writing a word. And after he started writing, his explorations confirmed his fears, leaving him permanently hollow inside. You can only write words for morons to consume for so long before realizing that, in actuality, you are the true moron for writing words for the edification of other morons.
It also sucks to see the folly in taking oneself too seriously, indeed, in taking life itself too seriously, but not being able to stop. Life is a ridiculous joke. If only we'd choose to live it that way, we'd all be much happier. And the world would be better for it.
It also sucks to feel the spiritual void within your soul, recognizing the need to fill it but have nothing to fill it with. For the spiritually bankrupt, religion has no meaning and only serves to move the sufferer further away from their core. For the spiritually bankrupt, the seeker, our national religion acts as an irritant rather than a salve. Money is God and money is nothing more than paper. Nature suffices for a while but beauty transforms over time to become loneliness. Basho would agree with that. Beauty serves to remind the spiritually bankrupt that they are empty inside, bereft of natures fine hues, never to receive her blessing until, in death, becoming one with nature again. The company of others works for a while, too. But after realizing that the majority of people simply regurgitate things they hear other people say, company becomes a chore; something to tolerate and not enjoy. And, if you’re able, that leaves writing to self discovery, at the terminus of which, for the empty soul, is the sad reality that nothing matters—not really. Therein lays the important truth: Life is a joke and the joke is on you. Have fun with it while you’re here.
If self-examination is so brutal that it leads to despair rather than enlightenment, I heartily recommend self-deception! Make it fancy enough and it's like a religion, except it's a religion that works!
Anonymous posts suck
Yo, Bob. Is "Bob the Painter Man" somehow less anonymous than "Anonymous"? I find it strange that people on the internet get so bent out of shape that other people don't provide names for them. Most times, if there is a name, it isn't a birth name, anyway. There's nothing in a name but letters. There is no heart, there are no ideas. While some people spend a lifetime constructing their own personality around the name their parents happened to decide upon, a name only serves to identify individuals to others. If we were all a little more anonymous we'd be less egotistical and again, the world would be better for it. You call me what you'd like to call me. It hardly matters. I can be Matt. I could be Patricia. Perhaps, to you, I could be David, Jesus or Paul. How about Shree Bhagwan? Ignacio? Lawrence of Arabia? Whatever. You pick a name you're comfortable with and I'll be that person for you if it makes you more comfortable.Brandon: I like your suggestion.
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