For years, I thought an intellectual conversation had to include dissecting the meaning of the universe and debating the [non]purpose of life.

Then, at the suggestion of a friend, I checked a few books out of the library, books written by or about David Foster Wallace.

After reading the material, I came to the conclusion there’s no reason to read his writings anymore because DFW committed suicide, which in itself is the logical conclusion of all the arguments and observations he made in his writing.

Thus, as I have thought before but never articulated, an intellectual conversation can emphatically state or totally ignore the meaning of the universe and the [non]purpose of life.

I won’t go as far as saying that the writing/artwork/music/biographies of people who committed suicide should be banned, burned and/or buried.

I do suggest that we take into serious consideration the conclusion the suicidal people reached in their thoughts, less so for those within a short, miserable ending of a terminal illness, whatever we may [not] wish to call a terminal disease.

If a person created anything — a bridge, a computer, a spaceship, a novel, a quilt, a child — and then later committed suicide, the creations are part and parcel of the suicidal thoughts, are they not?

It is one thing to muse on the futility of our individual lives, and quite another thing to end our lives, regardless of our auspicious or suspicious beginnings.

What, next, about career suicide or similar forms of cutting off oneself from societal ties?

There are no failures.  There are no successes.  There is only what we choose to do next.

For me, there are 13,637 days until the next big step, despite momentary distractions that loom large in temporary comparison.

If a person ends his life, there is no “next” left.

DFW’s writings are absent from my future because he chose to absent himself from the present — I respect his right to say goodbye to my life.  I say goodbye to his.