hunter s. thompson
the great prose stylist and humourist is dead by his own hand. there is sadness and grief. i often don't have much in the way of sympathy for suicides, but hunter is an exception. his wasn't a botched cry for help. he made a decision and followed through with it, whatever his reasons.
in my selfishness i reckon that i'm sick of losing favourite writers. too many of them are disappearing, and it is a reminder of my own aging. fear and loathing is the funniest and most remarkable book i've had the pleasure to read aloud to many good friends. i think we can be consoled by the knowledge that his books will still be in print for a good damned while.
perhaps hunter left this kingdom of fear in search of a new one that isn't expecting a surprise visitor. wherever his molecules have scattered, i'm thankful the world sustained and tolerated the likes of him for as long as it did.