I know there are many people blogging about David Foster Wallace and that it will happen for a long time. Here is an excellent remembrance from NPR.
I wasn't the hugest fan of his fiction, though I liked much of it. But I love his non-fiction, especially "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again."
Here's a link to one of his stories from The New Yorker. And a link to his essay on Roger Federer from the New York Times.
But my overwhelming response, besides sadness for another human being and writer, is a question.
Is it possible to be a successful writer, a wildly productive one, and still be a happy, normal (not just seemingly normal) person?
Unfortunately, the longer I live the more the answer seems to be no. And not just no, but NO!