Infinite Questions: Why Did David Foster Wallace Hang Himself? 

I chose this picture of DFW because this is what he looked like the one time I saw him in person. This was about ten years ago in a bookstore in Dupont Circle, DC. He was reading from "Infinite Jest," and I attended the reading because I'd heard so much about him. How many people publish critically acclaimed fiction in their 20s? Well, he did. I remember my friends and I made fun of his bandanna later, but we knew he was the literary genius of Generation X -- clothing disorder or not. 

After that reading, I decided to read some of his work, but it just wasn't for me. In fact, I hated it. Even last night, after I heard he was dead, I opened his latest short story collection using the Amazon.com reader. Snooze. Honestly, I really dislike the whole Foster/Eggers school of writing, and it's not because it's depressing. I love depressing stuff! I suppose I would have to wade through more of it to explain exactly what I don't like about it, and I'm not willing to do that. 

But DFW's death has affected me, even moved me. I've been thinking about it quite a bit today as the rain pours down. There are so many questions -- was he sick? Did he dread the new school year? Did he have writer's block? Did he even leave a note? He must have -- I mean, he's David Foster Wallace . . . .