D.F.W. erases his own map

Got word from Mr. Huevos tonight that David Foster Wallace, the author of the finest book I've ever read is dead by suicide at 46. I was introduced to the Infiite Jest by my roommate in college who, as far as I could tell did not really read any other books. Instead, he kept the jest by his chair and, having previously read it cover to cover, would read it the way some people do the Bible--opening it to any random page and beginning from there. After a year of observing this I finally bought it and three months and eleven hundred pages later was a devotee myself. It is sometimes dismissed as post-modern high brow jibberish but the genius of the jest is the same as any great book: 1. wit and wisdom 2. characters you know and love. To name just a few of the latter: Michael Pemulis, Randy Lenz, Don Gately and Mario Incandenza, who are each in their own way amazing.
I can read the jest or any of his other fine works (consider the lobster in particular is also great)today just as i could yesterday, so in the strictest sense i am not impacted by his death. Hopefully he had something in his lifetime that gave him as much enjoyment as his books give me, and hopefully his death (and the accompanying mini-wave of publicity) will cause his star to burn as bright as his talent deserves.