This is so awfully painful. The tentacles of anxious depression reach into the mind and body and make people want to just disappear, to make the pain go away. I'm heartened by the loving response of David's family, who obviously are enlightened about the effects of mental illness. I can imagine lots of older parents badgering their son to get off his duff and back to work, for example, rather than simply appreciating his presence. And I also like the sister's recognition that DFW had indeed hung on long past the point of painful. What a remarkable family; what a loss to the world.

about David, but have not read his books. Still, I was deeply moved by this article, especially the part about his parents staying at his house.

I hope someone makes a non-sentimental indie film about the last weeks in David's life. No happy ending, but life doesn't always offer that.

R.I.P.

oh, the disease of depression is so tragic and inexplicable! There are things in life--relations between nations, husband and wife, willful teenagers and their parents--that seem they could be fixed or tweaked with just a small shift, like the thing is askew but easily capable of being righted. So why could this poor man not have arrived at a solution to the horrors of his last months? It tears one's heart out to read. David was such a phenomenal author and by all accounts, a very compassionate person. As the article said, he seemed to have so much to live for. The smattering of facts about his last days have me asking more desperate questions in grief: couldn't he have gone back on the meds, despite the serious side effects? He had a doctor, didn't they have a solution, so that he could at least maintain his equilibrium?

But alas, as with the nations, spouses, and families, sometimes things have their own slow-motion tragic course, and those around these train-wrecks in progress can do nothing but watch in horror. Obviously, all his loved ones would have done everything they could to help the poor guy. The disease itself probably was his worst enemy in seeking the best treatment. This story just tears the heart out, and reminds one of the frailty of the human condition. I started Infinite Jest for the second time tonight. I am savoring every word. It is all we can do, and while it is so nice to have his books and stories, this really stings.

I am grateful, at least, in my grief, to know that it was depression. I didn't know he suffered from depression. It's such an awful thing. Up at our writers conference in Marconi over last weekend, we sat in the lovely den of McCargo Hall and read pieces from DFW as a tribute. It felt good. It's so sad. I don't suppose you can "see" depression; sometimes I think I can see it in people but never saw it in him, the only time I saw him read, at the All Saints Church on Waller between Shrader and Ashbury in the Haight, a Booksmith reading, full to bursting and ... such a sweet, brilliant, class guy ... at Marconi I read the "accident report" from Infinite Jest and there were tears in our eyes from the laughter.

...tell you all you need to know.

Hal, physically unable to speak, to communicate, spends 18 pages telling us of his life. When he tries to speak, he falls to the floor convulsing. What is he trying to say? "I am in here."

I could go on and on with passage after passage as nearly every character is struck with crippling sadness. Yes, the book is filled with incredible joy, but it's hallmark is the profound compassion Wallace has towards his characters.

Upon completion of my first read of the masterpiece in 1885 I knew Wallace's life would not end well. Only someone who has known immense depression could have written this novel. And only someone who has not will fail to see it.

i just attended a student art show at my local college. 5 of the fifteen pieces dealt with anguish that hinted or outrightly suggested suicide, including one that featured a chair with a shotgun at it's feet facing a black plexiglass. So many of us in pain and no one to unburden ourselves to, in this day of pharmaceutical solutions that attempt to improve our "functionality". We aren't machines!.

The medical world has convinced us that it is the individual , not a society in which people are low on the priority scale. it very much reminds me of the way the government insists on the "lone gunman" theory in the the case of JFK, MLK or RFK.

Sexton (another suicide) had remarked:

"I lack the anger gene."

Everyone's description of David Foster Wallace is of how nice he was, compassionate...maybe he was too nice, too compassionate...he also lacked what Sexton called "the anger gene."

And that's why he's dead.

Was there no talk therapy, ever? You know...when you start out depressed and end up angry...and then get through that...into transformation and healing.

Anybody know of any long-term relationship with a therapist, of the talking variety?

Very strange, the story of a child wanting to be a neurosurgeon, to fix his mother's "frayed nerves" - ??? What the heck is that all about, from the psychotherapy standpoint?

Depression eats away at everything you think it good about yourself. Every day you get up, and push a rock up a hill like in the Greek myth of Sisyphus, and at the top it rolls down to the bottom again. You are condemned to do this every day- perhaps sometimes finding hope in press releases about new treatments or new drugs that you can leave the rock behind.

Treatment-resistant depression is a cruel lot. You see so many others being helped by meds that barely keep your depression in check. Yet, you still must keep functioning because you don't want to give up-- you want a fulfilling life. Going on disability seems like giving up. But whatever you touch somehow gets tainted. You are late to work even though your work can be outstanding. Relationships with intimates falter, people pull away. There is a pain that if you acknowledge it, will cause you to scream and never stop.

Mr. Foster finally was able to stop screaming. It is not a path I will chose but I totally understand why he took it.