I just found out this afternoon that one of my literary heros is gone. Hunter S. Thompson took his own life:
Hunter S. Thompson, the acerbic counter-culture author of books such as “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” fatally shot himself Sunday night at his Aspen-area home, his son said. He was 67.
“Hunter prized his privacy and we ask that his friends and admirers respect that privacy as well as that of his family,” Juan Thompson said in a statement released to the Aspen Daily News.
If I think too much on this I may shed tears over this. I spent a good chunk of this past summer with a copy of his correspondences stuck under my arm. The world he dealt with fascinated me. He pushed limits like no man and reading of his exploits put all kinds of new and wonderful ideas into my head. You don’t just read that intimately of someone’s interactions with the world and not feel some kind of connection.
Time to go commiserate the bad news with some friends. R.I.P. Hunter, you crazy bastard. Selah.