I was an English major as an undergraduate, so when something ripples (or thunders) through the literary world, I feel it, even if I’m only familiar with the source in a cursory fashion.

Keeping that in mind, the literary world (and the world at large) lost one of its most brilliant, energetic, driven minds when author David Foster Wallace committed suicide late last week.  I’m really not good for words at times like this, so I’ll defer to Jessamyn, who writes,

I don’t think I was necessarily any more favorite than any of his other students, just that he wanted the best for all of us. He had an unstoppable brain that could do anything it wanted and yet at the same time reminded him constantly just how much his brain couldn’t save him from.

And I’ll add this: even if he relied on footnotes more than the average writer, David Foster Wallace certainly will not go down as a mere footnote himself.  Without a doubt, he will be missed.