Sad

The news of David Foster-Wallace's suicide really threw me today.  It's deeply sad for his family and friends, I'm sure, but it illuminates the delicacy of one's own existence, the frailty of one's mental health.  I have to wonder what led him to take his life.  To me, he seemed to have an ideal existence:  a published and lauded writer, married, teaching in a small, exclusive school.  Where was his gap, his despair?  Was it depression or a confluence of things?  Did his brilliant mind burn him out with its relentlessness?  My thoughts are with his family.  Death penetrates so deeply, and while things seem the same outwardly, inwardly we are changed forever; becoming gentler, wiser, sadder.