1/04/2025

I Grew Up Obsessed With Geniuses Who Killed Themselves

david foster wallace, elliott smith, and the burden of being “smart”

I started writing this essay an hour before I read DeepMind researcher Felix Hill's suicide note. The universe has a way of making connections that feel both profound and painful.

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I grew up obsessed with geniuses who killed themselves. I found something magnetic about brilliant minds who leave us too soon by choice. As a teenager, I was drawn into the orbits of two particular creative forces: David Foster Wallace and Elliott Smith. Their works became more than art to me – they were companions in understanding the complexity of existence, the weight of consciousness, and the struggle to create meaning in a world that often feels overwhelming.

complex ≠ complicated

David Foster Wallace's prose mapped depression with devastating precision – his footnotes and digressions weren't stylistic choices but mirrors of how an overactive mind processes reality. Elliott Smith accomplished something similar through music, using gentle melodies to deliver devastating truths. Both captured the disconnect between our outer presentation and inner turmoil with an intimacy that made you feel less alone.

Perhaps it is arrogant to acknowledge this kinship, but in their work, I saw myself: a mind that wouldn't quiet down, carrying thoughts too heavy for everyday conversation. Felix Hill articulated this perfectly: “a brain that's hyper alert, and constantly connecting things.” Growing up like this creates a specific kind of isolation. There's a particular pain in being told you're “so smart” while feeling like you're barely holding yourself together – your intelligence both illuminating your depression and providing new ways to torture yourself with doubt.

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At the heart of this obsession though, is a question that haunts me still: What is the worth of a life? I’ve inherited a narrative that tells me life only has meaning if it leaves a mark—a “dent in the universe,” to borrow Steve Jobs’ words. And yet, I don’t impose this expectation on others. When I see friends or strangers living quietly—without grand achievements or public accolades—I don’t judge their lives as less valuable. Why, then, do I judge myself so harshly?

Felix's note captures this paradox perfectly: his work at DeepMind was extraordinary by any measure, yet he described an unrelenting internal voice that demanded more, that wouldn't let him rest. Maybe it's that same depth of feeling and thought that both enables transcendent work and leads to overwhelming pain.

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I've been on medication for two years now. Like Felix, I understand the complex relationship with antidepressants – how they can simultaneously save you and subtly reshape your world. One of my intentions for 2025 is to get off them, though I'm terrified. His warning about the risks of removing that safety net echoes in my mind. I'm cautious but hopeful, knowing that depression isn't something I'll ever “win”—but something I'll learn to carry. Maybe in letting go of the tortured genius myth, I can finally rewrite the narrative I've clung to for so long.

This essay isn’t about resolving those contradictions—because I’m not sure they can be resolved. It’s about acknowledging them and, perhaps, finding a way to live with them. What I’ve learned, and what I’m still learning, is that the narrative of “making a dent” is not the only story. There’s another, quieter one about being—about existing in a way that is authentic and connected, even if it’s not monumental. So maybe the most important lesson here isn't about the connection between genius and suffering, but about the crucial importance of finding ways to sustain ourselves while pursuing our creative truths.

Geniuses who killed themselves often left behind brilliance and tragedy in equal measure. They remind us of what it means to push the boundaries of thought and feeling—but also of the cost. For those of us who’ve felt their pull, the challenge is to honor their work while also choosing, deliberately, to live.

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The universe gave me a sign to write this essay. Maybe it's because someone else needs to hear that they're not alone in this peculiar form of existence – being blessed and cursed with a mind that sees too much, feels too deeply, and sometimes needs help finding its way back to solid ground.

Random thoughts, because DFW would

imagine reading david foster wallace while listening to elliott smith at 15 years old in the cold dreadful winter of canada
not entirely surprised but apparently elliott smith was one of DFW’s fav artists and potentially ran in similar circles during their time in uni (see image of a reddit thread)
watching the end of the tour, which came out during my first year of uni changed my life. i was a philosophy minor for a hot second because of it

also i’d only seen jason segel in freaks and geeks before this movie so imagine my surprise
i was also going through my jesse eisenberg / Genius White Man Doing Math™ genre of movies phase

good will hunting, the imitation game, the theory of everything, a beautiful mind, whiplash, moneyball, the social network