I don’t really know what to say, any more than anyone else does, but I think I’ve got to say something.

I was lucky enough to take a couple of classes with David Wallace at Pomona. I had already read Infinite Jest and a bunch of his non-fiction by then, and I fought for a place in his literature and writing classes. I’m glad I did, because he was as thoughtful, diligent, and smart as a teacher as he was as a writer. I learned a lot from him about writing (among other things, I learned that I should probably let other people handle the writing), but I learned at least as much about kindness, honesty, and humility. Writing is hard work, but so is literary criticism–and teaching a litter of undergrads either one is surely harder than both combined. I came out of that lucky year with at least as much admiration for Wallace the man as for Wallace the auteur.

In the wake of his death, I’ve been in touch with a few of my classmates from those courses, and we’re all simply shocked–by the death itself, and by the manner in which it occurred. Wallace seemed like a man whose darkest days were behind him; he had stared down many demons, and we all thought he had come out on top. But I guess he taught us better than to accept the superficial without probing deeper.

It’s a terrible loss for the literary world, of course, but for many people it’s much more than that. Through his writing, through his teaching, and through his character, Dave touched a lot of people in a way that belies his (ill-considered) reputation as an ironist. We’ll miss him very much.