Intelligence takes it on the chin. Again. - David Foster Wallace found dead in his home

David Foster Wallace was found dead by his wife yesterday. He hanged himself.

This brings me down.

I didn't get as much out of his fiction as some other people. It is dense and difficult to parse. But his essays were brilliant, as was his nonfiction. In the same way that jazz is an acquired taste, his fiction does not reward the casual reader; his essays are much more accessible. Also insightful. And funny. His short stories are also difficult, in that they are occasionally related, oddly paced and hard to follow.

If you wrote a story in DFW-style in high school and submitted it you would get a failing grade. If you submitted the same story in college you might pass, depending on whether or not the teacher thought you were doing it intentionally. His stories were like that: if you didn't know he was doing it on purpose you'd think he was off his rocker. But his essays were consistently brilliant.

You can make comparisons to John Kennedy Toole or some other tortured writer if you want to. I think that's an oversimplification; borrowing from Tolstoy: each person is unhappy in their own way. It may be that Wallace was having a hard time living up to his own promise. We'll never know. And that's a sadness.
He was 46.