I have been wanting for a while to write more on the death of Hunter Thompson. I wanted to write about how much his writing meant to me, how much energy and verve it had, how much I learned about accepting the bizzare and outrageaous as legitimate and even beautiful parts of real life.
Instead, I'm left with the news that when Hunter killed himself, he did so (1) with his wife on the phone, and (2) with his son, daughter-in-law and 6-year-old grandson in the house (see this Yahoo article for details).
Of course, any suicide is a complex matter, and unless you know all the facts, any judgement you make should be tempered. I had a friend who committed suicide a while back, and I still have no clue as to how I should feel about that one...and as I will never know enough, I doubt I ever will. However, knowing that a family member will discover your bleeding corpse is bad. Killing yourself when your wife is on the phone to you and your six friggin year old grandson is a room or two over....
Right now, it's really hard for me to like Hunter.