This morning everyone in the world needs to watch this.
I cried. Not just because my hormones are in so many weird places that gone-off milk makes me cry, along with EVERYTHING ELSE. But there’s a lovely and true resonance about it. And David Foster Wallace was a brilliant, brilliant novelist with many years of serious depression behind him, who committed suicide in 2008. The depression didn’t make him any less brilliant and his brilliance didn’t make him any less depressed. I haven’t the first clue what capital-D-Depression feels like, and wouldn’t presume to guess, but I do know that it’s not something you can shrug on and off like a backpack, and neither is it self-indulgent nor self-inflicted.
The fact that Wallace, with all he was carrying, could talk about consciously living a compassionate life in the middle of adult grind, makes me feel the loss of him more, and appreciate the goodness of things more as well.
(Also, the girl behind Hyperbole and a Half – which is one of my favourite internet reads – just published a wonderful, sad-and-funny cartoon on depression, here. After you’ve read it, look for the Kenny Loggins Christmas post, and bring a hanky for when you cry with laughter. You’re welcome.)