Verlyn Klinkenborg wrote a beautiful piece on the editorial page of the New York Times about David Foster Wallace, who committed suicide over the weekend. They were both on the faculty of Pamona College.

He had the very rare gift — something he shared with Seamus Heaney
— of carrying the greatness of his ability intact within him and never
letting it obtrude upon his colleagues. He was just a laborer in the
field along with the rest of us. To his students, he was especially
generous. Many nights I have left my office in Crookshank Hall at
Pomona College and seen Dave, in the office next door, deep in a
Druidical conversation with a 20-year-old who was staggered by the
possibilities of writing. In a sense, Dave and I conversed through our
students. My students taught me how much he had taught them, and I hope
the reverse sometimes happened, too.

His work does not say how
much common sense he had or that there was something tender, as well as
demanding, in his privacy. It suggests that his presence might have
been excoriating, when it was merely attentive and thoughtful. The
roguishness of his author photos turned out — in person — to mean a
fondness for torn T-shirts and no love for shaving his long jaw.