David Foster Wallace hung himself a couple of months back. His novel, "Infinite Jest" is considered one of the great literary novels in recent years, as he is considered one of the best fiction writers.
I knew David. Not well, but I knew him. We were in the M.F.A. program at the University of Arizona at the same time. That was when that program, although today still very good, was the best writing program in the world.
David was the star fiction writer, already published, looked upon with a slight sense of awe by students and professors alike.
One night back then, I gave a reading at one of those coffee houses evey college has. David sought me out afterward, telling me how much he liked the poems. I read my work on a local radio station soon after, and, again, when we passed each other in the halls, he made the point of telling me he had heard me read. And that he loved my poems. I say this with a good deal of pride.
I blew David off at the time. I always sensed he wanted to talk more, but I was just too young, too into myself. I have always regretted not talking more.
Years later, I made an effort to seek him out. He was a big star by then and I was thinking he could help me get my novel published. That was my only reason for trying to reach out to him- so he could help me. I say that with a good deal of shame.
David was special. He was gracious, he was kind. He was one of those people everyone misses even though most barely knew him. I barely knew him. If I had taken five minutes in that hallway twenty years ago, I believe we could have become friends. And, like so many, I hope I could have helped him during those last days.
But I didn't. I had things to do....
