‘The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be or you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains constant. the variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s the terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling “Don’t!” and “Hang on!”, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”
I agreed with this for a long time because of the eloquence of the wording… because of the truth…
…but, you see… part of me… and just me, chill… desires a bit of the fall. …absolutely not the whole fall… but I’d be lying if I said that “It’s not desiring the fall”.
…because of the fear. But that’s the thing. We are stupid bitches retarded to our own flesh and it’s actual FLESH.
the live version and the dead version. cold. dead.
sorry, but david foster wallace was an example of the moderately mundane youth-ish ‘troubled’ white american man of yesterday.
I mean, are you serious?… this fuckin’ book… that weighs more than my torso?
But, I get it… and I like that he was self-indulgent enough to go there… but 46 or something and then this explanation…
Let the suicidal people of the world feel what they feel and kill themselves in the way that they’d like.