As reported in the news over the weekend, spilling into the papers this week, American novelist/essayist David Foster Wallace took his life. He had hung himself in his home, only to be discovered later by his wife.
To be honest, I’ve only read one piece by Wallace – an essay in an issue of Harper’s almost ten years ago on the release of the revised Oxford English Dictionary – and yet it left an indelible impression on me. It made me laugh out loud with its quirky honesty and his style was unique and strong; in short, it made me take notice of writing and writers at a time when it simply was not on my radar (for various reasons). I always swore I would read one of his books, but the prospects of picking up the one he is best known for, Infinite Jest, all 1,000 pages of it, was intimidating. It still is, but that has more to do with the fact that I’m in the middle (or, factually, just past the middle) of War & Peace with Joyce’s Ulysses staring at me from the bookshelf longingly.
Wallace’s suicide is the second in the last few years by an artist who’s work I’d kept an eye on. The first was that of American humorist and performer, Spalding Gray, who – it is assumed – leapt from a ferry into the Hudson River and drowned. I saw him at Massey Hall (one of the most venerable venues in Toronto) many years ago. As with Wallace’s essay, I remember crying with laughter during Gray’s droll monologue.
Which brings us to the question of artists and suicide.
Someone on Bookninja had this to say in reaction to the story:
In my work (psychiatry) I’ve seen so many creative people who are so tortured inside. I’ve often wondered if, given the choice, they’d choose peace over creativity. Maybe suicide is exercising that choice.
I thought about this. I wanted to respond, because I had something to say, but in the end I decided it would only be a tangent and while tangents are allowable in most online situations, an obituary is not exactly the place for one.
The answer is that artists do not want peace, or at least an artificial peace. To do so would be to abandon the tension which is inherent in art (and science, for that matter). In their art, over the course of their lives, artists attempt to resolve this tension; to articulate what it is that is at the centre of a storm which motivates them to create. The tension is the artist. Them against an outside world which does not work. Art becomes a philosophical expression of an existential dilemma. With this as the case, how many artists would willingly barter peace for creativity if such a trade were even possible? Not many, I would wager. What is peace when art allows you to reach higher than ever before, to touch the cookie jar of euphoria with your fingertips?
Like Wallace and Gray, I too suffer from depression. Their passing gives me pause, to put it lightly. Last night over dinner, Ingrid and I had a long talk about this – Wallace, Gray, art, and suicide – and she used a quote from Wallace that she’d read in one of the obituaries, that suicide happens very slowly. He is right. It is not, as commonly portrayed, an impulsive decision, but rather something which gestates very gradually within the mind of the sufferer. The danger is that this internalized dialogue, over the course of years, may eventually lead to the rationalization or acceptance of suicide as a logical option or self-fulfilling prophecy.
Art, however, is not depression, and depression should not be construed as something which only afflicts those in the arts. When you are depressed, anything can inflame the situation. Both the fire and the water used to douse it. It is for this reason that I take a moment to bring this up. So that people may understand what is, for lack of a better term, a mental illness. Allow me to suggest a wonderful series in the Globe and Mail, perhaps the best collection of stories and first-person recollections on the subject to be found in any newspaper.
I tip my hat to Wallace, to Gray. I mourn for the grief experienced by their loved ones.
You’ve said what I’ve been thinking about Wallace’s death. I’m not a big fan of Wallace’s work, but the the writer’s suicide disturbed me, especially when he only six years old than I am. Of course, the cliche that no one can really understand suicide holds, but certainly depression is a symptom. I think writers and artists are are much more susceptible to the storms of the mind because they do dig deep, expose the raw psyche more often, and without protection.
Agreed. The investigative nature of art – ostensibly investigating the nature of the artist by his or herself – can very much be like scratching a sore which, for reasons of overall health, should not be scratched.
And yet we do.
BTW (in general): I’ve been told that they are holding a memorial this Friday in Toronto’s Trinity Bellwoods Park for Wallace, in case anyone locally is reading this post.
(“they” being some people I don’t know) More here: http://www.bookninja.com/?p=4501
Matt: You know me under a previous blog incarnation that I am keeping as low key as possible: WR — we shared a love of science fiction, but please don’t let on. Anyway, I have been thinking about writing about this because of my vast knowledge of suicide and mood disorders from every angle possible. I used to think artists/writers were more prone to depression/suicide, but in fact, statistically, it is not at all true. I will likely post on it sometime soon after I get over my election obsession, since Wallace’s suicide offers this opportunity.
Also, you’ve been reading War and Peace for a heck of a long time.
Squirrel/WnR/WR: You can change your guise, but you can’t change the way you write – yes, I sorta figured you were one in the same. I will keep your previous incarnations private, of course.
I would love (love) to read your thoughts on the topic of depression/suicide/artists, seeing as that it is obviously within the purview of your profession (and perhaps beyond).
On this note, have you by any chance read “Touched With Fire” by Kay Redfield? I read it a number of years ago and found it compelling.
As regards W&P, it's a bedside book. It can only be that. The bloody brick-thing is 14" x 8" x 4", in other words its very size (not to mention weight) negates its portability. Since I do most of my reading on the streetcar, it's impossible to lug it around without developing a hostile relationship to it (or a severe misalignment of my spine).
I feel like I should develop a special bag for this and other books so that people like me have a fighting chance to take them out of the house without the need for a pull-wagon.
However, I am approaching the 700's – it's coming along, I swear.
Kay Redfield Jamison: one of my heroes and an expert on mood disorders, but suicide stats are another thing. Keeping my “profession” low key too, but providing same information, just not so “first person.” Will pursue this topic as a “nonprofessional.” Funny you sensed it was me. So did my various other good blog friends. “Voice is voice” said Shelly. Also, War and Peace is exactly the sort of book suited for Kindle on the bus. (Yuck). I went to Barnes and Noble the other day and asked for a specific book and they actually asked: do you want it in book form?
That was a lovely post…lots to think about.
(and btw – I’m starting War and Peace soon. I have an ebook. Makes it actually portable.
Hey Heather – thanks (again). I'm encouraged by the amount of conversation on the blogosphere about this – not just mourning the loss of Wallace – but discussing the nature of suicide and mental illness.
As for W&P, best of luck with it. Is it the latest translation (by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky)?
thank you for this post, it meant a lot to me.
i'm about 1/3 of the way thru W&P, but via unabridged audio book, so i've no idea what page number i'm on….
hmmm – are creativity/low moods/W&P correlated?
Thanks for the comment, fish – not sure if there's any feasible correlation between W&P and creativity/low moods, however there is a subtle (if not perfect) metaphor for this in the struggles of young Natalya (around mid-book).