Wallace: Of Infinite Jest and Infinite Sadness - Nardil (old antidepressant) and electroshock

[Guest guest]

http://www.americanchronicle.com/articles/81116

Wallace: Of Infinite Jest and Infinite Sadness

by Freer

November 11, 2008

The news came as a shock, gradually rippling throughout the literary community like ripples through a pond, with the effects certain to last far longer. Wallace was dead, having killed himself after a long and largely private battle with mental illness. One of the finest writers of his generation had made the ultimate choice, marked by a finality that belies words, leaving those left behind to ponder the loss of a gentle genius who fought the good fight, but could hold on no longer. The story of the life and untimely death of Wallace is one marked by triumph and tragedy, hope and despair, lightness and dark. Indeed, looking back now it is a testament to both his genius and tenacity that he was able to produce such meaningful and even prodigious (his first novel The Broom of the System was over 700 pages) work in light of his personal demons. This inherent desire to produce something real, something new and meaningful, was largely what drove the author to such dizzying heights within the literary world in the first place. His work, Infinite Jest, was listed as one of the greatest works of fiction of the century. Yet, sadly commercial literary success can ring hollow for many, and for those troubled souls that seek it out as a measure of their worth, it can prove tragic. Wallace´s life is not altogether that unlike many of his novels, as he too was a searcher on a path less traveled. His transformation into a seminal writer was equally unlikely. Indeed, his first paper at graduate school was returned to him with a comment that read, "I hope this isn't representative of the work you're hoping to do for us. We'd hate to lose you." It was a phony sentiment and Wallace picked up on it intuitively. Like a marginally grown-up Holden Caulfield, Wallace saw phoniness and insincerity all around him and he had equally little stomach for it. One of Wallace´s biggest fears was that he would lose the sincerity, uniqueness and "realness" that made him who he was. This feeling dictated much of who Wallace would become, and it was evidenced in everything from the way he spoke to how he dressed. And, sadly in his last months, it was this very sentiment that likely led to his demise. The tale of how Wallace came to his tragic end is riddled with irony and lost promise. Yet, it begins with a measure of hope. After struggling for over twenty years with severe mental illness and clinical depression, Wallace sought a way to be "normal." Having taken the anti-depressant Nardil with marked results for nearly two decades, Wallace´s most sincere hope was to wean himself off of this dangerous drug. Nardil, while often effective in the treatment of severe clinical depression, carries with it a host of potential medical side effects, not the least of which are heart attack and death. Ironically, many of those around him such as good friend author Franzen, were heartened by the possibility of his getting off the drug. Yet, just as quickly as hope appeared, it left abruptly and without notice, leaving a terrible void of emptiness and depression in its wake. The therapeutic plan of action was an abysmal and ultimately tragic failure – once off of Nardil, Wallace began a rapid descent into depression and pain that would lead him to make a last solitary and terrible choice. The last weeks in the life of the author speak as much to his heroic effort to stay here with us, as they do to his troubled and tormented psyche. Recognizing that the specters of fear and depression were beginning to envelop him, the author reached out to those closest to him in an honest effort to get help. He started taking the Nardil again to no effect, and even suffered through the physical and emotional agonies that come with electro-shock therapy. The clock was now ticking and Wallace likely began to comprehend this fact, yet he would not go without a fight. While his death was a suicide, it was not an impulsive first response, but rather a last resort to a long and taxing battle that had drained the writer of all he had to give and more. While others will be left to consider the social acceptability or religious implications of his final act, that is of little concern to those who loved him or his body of written work. We simply feel saddened, having been robbed of a writer whose past work was surely an indication of nearly infinite future promise. There is nothing funny about that.

[Guest guest]

http://www.americanchronicle.com/articles/81116

Wallace: Of Infinite Jest and Infinite Sadness

by Freer

November 11, 2008

The news came as a shock, gradually rippling throughout the literary community like ripples through a pond, with the effects certain to last far longer. Wallace was dead, having killed himself after a long and largely private battle with mental illness. One of the finest writers of his generation had made the ultimate choice, marked by a finality that belies words, leaving those left behind to ponder the loss of a gentle genius who fought the good fight, but could hold on no longer. The story of the life and untimely death of Wallace is one marked by triumph and tragedy, hope and despair, lightness and dark. Indeed, looking back now it is a testament to both his genius and tenacity that he was able to produce such meaningful and even prodigious (his first novel The Broom of the System was over 700 pages) work in light of his personal demons. This inherent desire to produce something real, something new and meaningful, was largely what drove the author to such dizzying heights within the literary world in the first place. His work, Infinite Jest, was listed as one of the greatest works of fiction of the century. Yet, sadly commercial literary success can ring hollow for many, and for those troubled souls that seek it out as a measure of their worth, it can prove tragic. Wallace´s life is not altogether that unlike many of his novels, as he too was a searcher on a path less traveled. His transformation into a seminal writer was equally unlikely. Indeed, his first paper at graduate school was returned to him with a comment that read, "I hope this isn't representative of the work you're hoping to do for us. We'd hate to lose you." It was a phony sentiment and Wallace picked up on it intuitively. Like a marginally grown-up Holden Caulfield, Wallace saw phoniness and insincerity all around him and he had equally little stomach for it. One of Wallace´s biggest fears was that he would lose the sincerity, uniqueness and "realness" that made him who he was. This feeling dictated much of who Wallace would become, and it was evidenced in everything from the way he spoke to how he dressed. And, sadly in his last months, it was this very sentiment that likely led to his demise. The tale of how Wallace came to his tragic end is riddled with irony and lost promise. Yet, it begins with a measure of hope. After struggling for over twenty years with severe mental illness and clinical depression, Wallace sought a way to be "normal." Having taken the anti-depressant Nardil with marked results for nearly two decades, Wallace´s most sincere hope was to wean himself off of this dangerous drug. Nardil, while often effective in the treatment of severe clinical depression, carries with it a host of potential medical side effects, not the least of which are heart attack and death. Ironically, many of those around him such as good friend author Franzen, were heartened by the possibility of his getting off the drug. Yet, just as quickly as hope appeared, it left abruptly and without notice, leaving a terrible void of emptiness and depression in its wake. The therapeutic plan of action was an abysmal and ultimately tragic failure – once off of Nardil, Wallace began a rapid descent into depression and pain that would lead him to make a last solitary and terrible choice. The last weeks in the life of the author speak as much to his heroic effort to stay here with us, as they do to his troubled and tormented psyche. Recognizing that the specters of fear and depression were beginning to envelop him, the author reached out to those closest to him in an honest effort to get help. He started taking the Nardil again to no effect, and even suffered through the physical and emotional agonies that come with electro-shock therapy. The clock was now ticking and Wallace likely began to comprehend this fact, yet he would not go without a fight. While his death was a suicide, it was not an impulsive first response, but rather a last resort to a long and taxing battle that had drained the writer of all he had to give and more. While others will be left to consider the social acceptability or religious implications of his final act, that is of little concern to those who loved him or his body of written work. We simply feel saddened, having been robbed of a writer whose past work was surely an indication of nearly infinite future promise. There is nothing funny about that.

[Guest guest]

http://www.americanchronicle.com/articles/81116

Wallace: Of Infinite Jest and Infinite Sadness

by Freer

November 11, 2008

The news came as a shock, gradually rippling throughout the literary community like ripples through a pond, with the effects certain to last far longer. Wallace was dead, having killed himself after a long and largely private battle with mental illness. One of the finest writers of his generation had made the ultimate choice, marked by a finality that belies words, leaving those left behind to ponder the loss of a gentle genius who fought the good fight, but could hold on no longer. The story of the life and untimely death of Wallace is one marked by triumph and tragedy, hope and despair, lightness and dark. Indeed, looking back now it is a testament to both his genius and tenacity that he was able to produce such meaningful and even prodigious (his first novel The Broom of the System was over 700 pages) work in light of his personal demons. This inherent desire to produce something real, something new and meaningful, was largely what drove the author to such dizzying heights within the literary world in the first place. His work, Infinite Jest, was listed as one of the greatest works of fiction of the century. Yet, sadly commercial literary success can ring hollow for many, and for those troubled souls that seek it out as a measure of their worth, it can prove tragic. Wallace´s life is not altogether that unlike many of his novels, as he too was a searcher on a path less traveled. His transformation into a seminal writer was equally unlikely. Indeed, his first paper at graduate school was returned to him with a comment that read, "I hope this isn't representative of the work you're hoping to do for us. We'd hate to lose you." It was a phony sentiment and Wallace picked up on it intuitively. Like a marginally grown-up Holden Caulfield, Wallace saw phoniness and insincerity all around him and he had equally little stomach for it. One of Wallace´s biggest fears was that he would lose the sincerity, uniqueness and "realness" that made him who he was. This feeling dictated much of who Wallace would become, and it was evidenced in everything from the way he spoke to how he dressed. And, sadly in his last months, it was this very sentiment that likely led to his demise. The tale of how Wallace came to his tragic end is riddled with irony and lost promise. Yet, it begins with a measure of hope. After struggling for over twenty years with severe mental illness and clinical depression, Wallace sought a way to be "normal." Having taken the anti-depressant Nardil with marked results for nearly two decades, Wallace´s most sincere hope was to wean himself off of this dangerous drug. Nardil, while often effective in the treatment of severe clinical depression, carries with it a host of potential medical side effects, not the least of which are heart attack and death. Ironically, many of those around him such as good friend author Franzen, were heartened by the possibility of his getting off the drug. Yet, just as quickly as hope appeared, it left abruptly and without notice, leaving a terrible void of emptiness and depression in its wake. The therapeutic plan of action was an abysmal and ultimately tragic failure – once off of Nardil, Wallace began a rapid descent into depression and pain that would lead him to make a last solitary and terrible choice. The last weeks in the life of the author speak as much to his heroic effort to stay here with us, as they do to his troubled and tormented psyche. Recognizing that the specters of fear and depression were beginning to envelop him, the author reached out to those closest to him in an honest effort to get help. He started taking the Nardil again to no effect, and even suffered through the physical and emotional agonies that come with electro-shock therapy. The clock was now ticking and Wallace likely began to comprehend this fact, yet he would not go without a fight. While his death was a suicide, it was not an impulsive first response, but rather a last resort to a long and taxing battle that had drained the writer of all he had to give and more. While others will be left to consider the social acceptability or religious implications of his final act, that is of little concern to those who loved him or his body of written work. We simply feel saddened, having been robbed of a writer whose past work was surely an indication of nearly infinite future promise. There is nothing funny about that.

[Guest guest]

http://www.americanchronicle.com/articles/81116

Wallace: Of Infinite Jest and Infinite Sadness

by Freer

November 11, 2008

The news came as a shock, gradually rippling throughout the literary community like ripples through a pond, with the effects certain to last far longer. Wallace was dead, having killed himself after a long and largely private battle with mental illness. One of the finest writers of his generation had made the ultimate choice, marked by a finality that belies words, leaving those left behind to ponder the loss of a gentle genius who fought the good fight, but could hold on no longer. The story of the life and untimely death of Wallace is one marked by triumph and tragedy, hope and despair, lightness and dark. Indeed, looking back now it is a testament to both his genius and tenacity that he was able to produce such meaningful and even prodigious (his first novel The Broom of the System was over 700 pages) work in light of his personal demons. This inherent desire to produce something real, something new and meaningful, was largely what drove the author to such dizzying heights within the literary world in the first place. His work, Infinite Jest, was listed as one of the greatest works of fiction of the century. Yet, sadly commercial literary success can ring hollow for many, and for those troubled souls that seek it out as a measure of their worth, it can prove tragic. Wallace´s life is not altogether that unlike many of his novels, as he too was a searcher on a path less traveled. His transformation into a seminal writer was equally unlikely. Indeed, his first paper at graduate school was returned to him with a comment that read, "I hope this isn't representative of the work you're hoping to do for us. We'd hate to lose you." It was a phony sentiment and Wallace picked up on it intuitively. Like a marginally grown-up Holden Caulfield, Wallace saw phoniness and insincerity all around him and he had equally little stomach for it. One of Wallace´s biggest fears was that he would lose the sincerity, uniqueness and "realness" that made him who he was. This feeling dictated much of who Wallace would become, and it was evidenced in everything from the way he spoke to how he dressed. And, sadly in his last months, it was this very sentiment that likely led to his demise. The tale of how Wallace came to his tragic end is riddled with irony and lost promise. Yet, it begins with a measure of hope. After struggling for over twenty years with severe mental illness and clinical depression, Wallace sought a way to be "normal." Having taken the anti-depressant Nardil with marked results for nearly two decades, Wallace´s most sincere hope was to wean himself off of this dangerous drug. Nardil, while often effective in the treatment of severe clinical depression, carries with it a host of potential medical side effects, not the least of which are heart attack and death. Ironically, many of those around him such as good friend author Franzen, were heartened by the possibility of his getting off the drug. Yet, just as quickly as hope appeared, it left abruptly and without notice, leaving a terrible void of emptiness and depression in its wake. The therapeutic plan of action was an abysmal and ultimately tragic failure – once off of Nardil, Wallace began a rapid descent into depression and pain that would lead him to make a last solitary and terrible choice. The last weeks in the life of the author speak as much to his heroic effort to stay here with us, as they do to his troubled and tormented psyche. Recognizing that the specters of fear and depression were beginning to envelop him, the author reached out to those closest to him in an honest effort to get help. He started taking the Nardil again to no effect, and even suffered through the physical and emotional agonies that come with electro-shock therapy. The clock was now ticking and Wallace likely began to comprehend this fact, yet he would not go without a fight. While his death was a suicide, it was not an impulsive first response, but rather a last resort to a long and taxing battle that had drained the writer of all he had to give and more. While others will be left to consider the social acceptability or religious implications of his final act, that is of little concern to those who loved him or his body of written work. We simply feel saddened, having been robbed of a writer whose past work was surely an indication of nearly infinite future promise. There is nothing funny about that.