The Conical Glass: American Suicide

Sunday, September 14, 2008

American Suicide

One of the things I constantly struggle with as I get older is having to accept my own ordinariness. There's a point in everyone's life, I think, where they feel they have limitless potential; you could become the best at something, you will be special. Perhaps you admire athletes like Tiger Woods or Michael Phelps, or actors like Julia Roberts or Tom Hanks, or even businessmen like Warren Buffett or Steve Jobs. You may not want to emulate their choice of career, but you are wowed by their passion and their skill.

My heroine was always author Anne Tyler, who lived a few blocks away from me for many years -- as I've stated before, I never saw her; she's something of a recluse. She published her first book when she was in her early 20s and I thought I'd be just like her someday. Of course, eventually I decided fiction writing was not my path to follow, though I've never stopped admiring Tyler's novels, and being curious about her particular brand of celebrity. If I had to be famous, hers is exactly the sort of fame I would want. She's wildly admired in certain circles, practically a household name, but she walks the streets of Baltimore without having to worry about paparazzi and autograph seekers. (Despite the fact that I never spotted her there, it was widely known that she shops at Eddie's. She probably just went there earlier in the day than I did.)

Something about David Foster Wallace's suicide really shook me, and all day I've been trying to figure out why. I had read some of his nonfiction, but his fiction always seemed too daunting to me. Infinite Jest had become something of a modern counterpart to War and Peace, the doorstop of a book you always meant to read someday. But based on what I did read, primarily the essays in A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, it was obvious the man was unbelievably gifted, as far from ordinary as you can imagine; he could be wordy and academic (he was famous for his footnotes), but capable of coming up with blindingly brilliant insights and turns of phrase. He won a MacArthur genius grant a few years back, and had become a well-regarded writing teacher in recent years.

He lived the life that most writers dream about: financial success, critical acclaim, adoring fans, the sort of Tyler-like level of fame that renders you uninteresting to the TMZs of the world while keeping you on a more exclusive A-list. (Book critic Michiko Kakutani wrote his appreciation in the New York Times, calling him a "prose magician.") And yet, he made the decision to end it all. In the aftermath of his death, his bouts with depression and substance abuse have been brought up, but no one will ever comprehend the personal demons that drove him to take his own life. It's a reminder to all the ordinary people that sometimes, even being extraordinary isn't enough.

posted by 125records @ 10:32 PM

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