A Finite jest.

I read about the author David Foster Wallace in the paper. I'm glad somebody ordered his big hit, Infinite Jest, at the main library in Tampere. I have got to read that book when it's available.

I like the thought of a 1000-and-plus-pages book (with footnotes too!). Something alluring about them. If you like what you're reading, it's a wonderful feeling to know that it's going to last for a long while yet.

Wallace is dead now. He suffered from depression for 20 years until he finally killed himself at 46. So the columnist wonders why he did it, since he had a family, success with his career, a wonderful life history.

To my mind, the right question is why he didn't do it any sooner. Can you imagine 20 years of severe depression? How on earth did he do it? It doesn't matter how many wonderful things you have in your life if you're depressed. They don't help that much, sadly.

Sometimes I wonder how it's possible that I'm still hanging on here, and I'm barely 25. I can't imagine living like I have so far for 20 more years, so I don't imagine it. I just don't plan my life that far ahead, but I keep my hopes up. One thing at a time.

I got tagged by Amoena. I'll get down to that soon. I don't really understand what it means though. Is it like those letters that used to circulate among strangers, where you wrote something about yourself and sent it forward?

You know, back when people still wrote letters. In case you don't know, they're these pieces of paper with writing on them. Writing that was written with a pen. Handwritten. Can you imagine?

I'm a little worried about my letter writing hobby. I've exchanged letters with my dear cousin for 16 years now, and we've always written at least once or twice a year. Now that she lives in the same town, I wonder if she'll want to keep it up. Well, maybe we'll continue as soon as we live in different towns again.