I've been meaning to note the death of a favorite writer of mine, David Foster Wallace. He ended a long bout with depression on September 12, 2008. His style was quirky but readable, and he had a frightfully honest, funny take on his subjects. I particularly loved his essays; it didn't hurt that he wrote beautifully and often about tennis, and I'm a rabid fan. I am particularly reminded today, for no particular reason, of my favorite book of his, A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. Totally random that I would think of that title today.