Alas! poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy;

Writer David Foster Wallace killed himself this weekend past. The books and essays of his that I’ve read have challenged, surprised and entertained me. Reading them, it wasn’t hard to “hear” the author’s depression. I imagine that his head, with the morass of thoughts, learning, and tangents that he wrote about, was an often difficult, painful place to be.

Good-night, sweet prince;
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

ETA: Harper’s has gathered links to Foster’s essays for that magazine. (From the NBCC blog.)

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