David Foster Wallace succombs

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273 writers who have committed suicide

Doug Stanhope: Life is like animal porn, it’s not for everybody.

Miles Raymond: Well, the world doesn’t give a shit what I have to say. I’m not necessary. Had. I’m so insignificant I can’t even kill myself.
Jack: Miles, what the hell is that supposed to mean?
Miles Raymond: Come on, man. You know. Hemingway, Sexton, Plath, Woolf. You can’t kill yourself before you’re even published.
Jack: What about the guy who wrote Confederacy of Dunces? He killed himself before he was published. Look how famous he is.
Miles Raymond: Thanks.
Jack: Just don’t give up, alright? You’re gonna make it.
Miles Raymond: Half my life is over and I have nothing to show for it. Nothing. I’m thumbprint on the window of a skyscraper. I’m a smudge of excrement on a tissue surging out to sea with a million tons of raw sewage.
Jack: See? Right there. Just what you just said. That is beautiful. ‘A smudge of excrement… surging out to sea.’
Miles Raymond: Yeah.
Jack: I could never write that.
Miles Raymond: Neither could I, actually. I think it’s Bukowsky.

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