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I have been waiting on writing something about David Foster Wallace, who basically broke my heart when he took his own life last week. It’s not only that I don’t know what I can add to our processing of the tragedy (I don’t), but also that I’ve actually been hoping someone could articulate the loss better than I. That quest was almost hopeless, as everything I read in the days following left me kind of dull and angry and sad that all we seem to be able to muster collectively are rushed declarations of his genius, or self-serving pronouncements of having actually read (or heard of) Infinite Jest.

But then I read A.O. Scott’s piece in Sunday’s Times, and that one hit a lot closer. A little ping in my heart came with the realization that at least one other soul (besides Better Half) felt a similar sort of helplessness over the whole thing. Scott also finally capsulizes what I could not: that Wallace is, with all of the depressing detail, the voice in your head.

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