Dear Vanessa, I’m an Italian writer, 51. David Foster Wallace is one of my favourite writers. He is just the last one in a long list of suicides: Ernest Hemingway, Edouard Levé, Primo Levi, Franco Lucentini, Vladimir Majakovskij, Sàndor Màrai, Yukio Mishima, Guido Morselli, Cesare Pavese, Virginia Woolf, David Foster Wallace. According to my terapist, I’m a suicide still alive myself. Writers often commit suicide and depression is not always the right explanation. Writing is a very peculiar activity: a writer must be alone to write and he must live the life of many different characters on paper. But in his life, he is closed in a room with a computer and nothing else. Paul Auster wrote beautiful lines on this situation. If every day you imagine a better world or – at least – a different world and if you think deeply at life and humanity, well, there’s a good chance that real life will have no interest for you. Alchool and drugs are of course just a way to accelerate the end. If life has a meaning, it’s just the prosecution of life itself. As any agnostic writer, I tend to look forUNKNOWN FRIENDS I’m way ahead of you on the same path we will never meet but maybe one day you will see my footsteps and next in the midst of the debris one of my books, a manuscript, a poem. I left them for you so that you could know me and my journey similar to yours but different I left them for us because I felt alone and I wished we could become, for a few steps, unknown friends. unknown friends (my readers) to share the burden of this lack of meaning. It’s not easy, as you can imagine. Real relationships tend to be a bit too challenging for the narcisitic personality of any artsist. Therapy can give ourselves consciousness, but not always relief. This just to tell you that I’m grateful for your article and I wish we could become unknown friends.