Authors who commit suicide find their Lovelybones-eye view from the afterlife brings them no comfort: 
 David Foster Wallace : Oh my God - look at that dreadful biography of me... and it's selling too... it's like they're murdering me all over again ... oh if I could only commit suicide all over again - but up here, you can't! 
 John Kennedy Toole : Oh shut up you preening self-regarding self-annotating depressing pedant, what about ME?? My God, if I'd only persevered for another year or so, I'd have been rich! Famous! Women would have wanted to sleep with me... maybe! Look at those sales figures! I'm so miserable! If there was only a way to commit suicide again up here again... but there isn't.... 
 B S Johnson : Put a sock in it - your situation is, admittedly, redolent of a sublime irony, but the afterlife of a real artist - me - not you, me - a real avant-gardist, a true believer - is wretched - look - hardly any of my God damned books are in print any more. No one loves them, just the odd post-grad creep scribbling a note in the margins of something unreadable. If there was only a way to commit suicide again up here again... but there isn't.... 
 Sylvia Plath : Bloody men! Up here! Again! No escape! And look! They're giving Ted Hughes a plaque in Westminster Abbey! Fuck!