I never gasp. I’m not a gasper and I’m shocked by very little despite my best attempts to appear stunned by crass behavior and lesser tragedies. But I did gasp, out loud, as my husband drove me to work and I read on my phone’s wee screen that David Foster Wallace had died. 

It’s to be expected when someone of great literary talent dies that the New York Times will rush in to honor him. And they did, in a beautiful range of pieces by inspired and mourning writers. But what really struck me is when Entertainment Weekly devoted a double-page spread in its new issue. Despite what has to be a losing ad-space proposition, EW has always maintained its book pages. But to see them devote so much space to an artist of words is truly touching and a sign of what an artist has been lost. 

I first discovered Wallace in college. I can’t tell you as others can the first piece they read. But the interlacing symphonies of prose and footnotes, the hyper-cerebral text and goofitude, the cagey observations and the fulsome heart — it all comes together in piece after piece and it won me over from the very start. It’s like reading in 3-D. I didn’t think I would ever be able to write like him — hell, it seemed exhausting — I just wanted to read him and make everyone else read him too. And now we know how truly exhausting it was. Wallace committed suicide after battling depression at the age of 46. 

If you’ve never experienced his writing, this essay on Roger Federer is a great place to start. The New Yorker has collected links to some of his essays. Or pick up his book, ‘A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again.’

If you know someone suffering from depression or at risk for suicide, there’s help for them and for you. Call Crisislink.