With only a few exceptions (inmates at Auschwitz facing certain, imminent, and ignoble death "anyway", e.g.) suicide betrays the killer as a coward.

Wallace apparently cared nothing for his family, especially the wife who found him dead at home.

I say the same about Plath, Woolf, Rothko, etc.

By leaving others to clean up behind them, they tell us "My whole life--including my 'art'--was a sham."

His "brilliance" apparently extended no further than a certain feeling for lobsters about to be boiled.

But his concern for his fellow human beings? Left hanging, I'm afraid.