the shrewdness of apes

when one of your heroes dies, convention says you're supposed to feel sad, bereft, a bit emptier than before. life loses some luster, food doesn't taste as good, whywhywhy, etc. so why does the (self-imposed) death of David Foster Wallace last week not leave me feeling any of that? i have found his writing so completely enjoyable and fulfilling over the years - even the impenetrable stuff. there were times when i even felt like he was writing from inside my own brain, which is not something any other writer has been able to accomplish (not that they would want to). and i really admired the way he would tackle such disparate subjects as tennis, mathematics, grammar, cruises, festivals, film, and food and always find some unique truths and insight in each. if you could get through the dense prose and the myriad footnotes (which were often some of the most entertaining parts), you could feel a sense of accomplishment and that you might have been given the opportunity to gain a better understanding of the world.

sometimes death provides answers, but more than anything, his death just leaves me with questions. were there any signs of depression in his writing? did acclaim and admiration leave him feeling empty? does "genius" mean a higher likelihood of unhappiness? should i be concerned because i identify so closely with some of his work? why did he choose hanging over the other options?

i'm going to spend some time reading and re-reading his work in the coming months, and i am thankful that it exists. but i doubt that i will gain any additional insight into the mindset that led him to his fate. and i don't think that i will suddenly feel like a part of me has gone missing. come to think of it, i may have learned that from reading his work.