David Foster Wallace has killed himself. He was 46 years old – my age, basically. There are very few writers whose work I seek out with a vengeance. Wallace was one of those writers. It started with _Infinite Jest_, that enormous and painful monster which took me a year to finish. Since then I’ve read everything he’s written that I know of. Hell, there are times I want to _be_ DFW. He was brilliant, funny, diverse, hip to a fault and it’s a terrible, terrible thing that he’s gone.

Anyone for a game of Eschaton?