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[...] telling myself that it was okay that I'd failed in my attempt to see the rayadito in what would surely be my only visit to the island--that it was better this way, that it was time to accept finitude and incompleteness and leave certain birds forever unseen, that the ability to accept this …

The vertiginous point where I turned back in the rain

[...] He'd loved writing fiction, Infinite Jest in particular, and he'd been very explicit, in our many discussions of the purpose of novels, about his belief that fiction is a solution, the best solution, to the problem of existential solitude. Fiction was his way off the island, and as long a…

if the phenomenology and the teleology of suicidality are the same as that of addiction, it seems fair to say that David died of boredom

However continually he was suffering in his last summer, there was still plenty of time, in the interstices between his identically painful thoughts, to entertain the idea of suicide