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| courtesy Karsh.org |
I know, I
know, this is supposed to be a festive time of the year. It’s supposed to be a
time of great cheer and good will toward men. And for me, it is. Who doesn’t
love Christmas? But I just watched a documentary on the life and suicide by
handgun of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
author, Hunter S. Thompson, and it got me to thinking, What’s with writers
(especially famous ones) committing suicide?
Admittedly,
the subject has fascinated me all the way back to my military school days when
my second year English teacher, Frank Nash, introduced me to Ernest Hemingway,
of which he was a sort of amateur scholar. Even before beginning our required
reading, A Farewell to Arms, he pointed to the famous black and white Karsh
photo of the bearded and sweater wearing Papa that hung on the wall above the
blackboard (we had real black boards at The Albany Academy for Boys), and he
talked on and on about the debate over whether or not Hemingway placed the
barrels of the double barreled shotgun in his mouth, or he pressed it up
against his forehead. While the end result was the same, there was something
almost eerie in Nash’s description of both methods of suicide. Something I
never forgot while reading all of Hemingway’s novels, and while becoming an
amateur Papa scholar in my own right.
Let’s face
it, Hemingway lived a life we could only dream about. A life I’ve tried to
emulate in my own humble way. Hunter Thompson also did the same, but instead of
facing down lions and angry bulls, he found his adventures with hallucinogenics
and drugs of all kinds. Both men shared a love and passion for guns, something
Thompson engaged in almost pathologically. According to his ex-wife, at one
point he owned 22 different long and short guns and all of them were loaded.
Both men
were rare talents and they became wealthy off their writing. They also enjoyed
legions of fans. Why then would they decide to end it all in a bloody haze of
spattered brain and bone matter? I guess the answer initially resides in the
fact that we, as writers, spend our days alone. We have vivid imaginations and
we tend to over think things. We dwell on stuff that irritates us. Like a pimple
that suddenly pops out on the middle of your back, it’s impossible to lance. It
pesters you night and day.
For
Hemingway, he couldn’t write anymore. Weeks of electro-shock therapy destroyed
his short term memory and it was an enormous struggle for him to put even two
words together, much less a short story. His nerves were shot and so was his
liver. One morning in July, he got up, went downstairs, grabbed his favorite
Italian made shotgun, loaded both barrels and…well, you know the rest. It was a
sad day for words and the world.
Many years
later, Hunter Thompson would sit at his typewriter in the kitchen of his Owl
Creek, CO, home and while his son and grandson were in the room next door, he
typed out his epitaph.
No More Games. No More Bombs. No More
Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more
than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody. 67.
You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax – This won’t hurt.
He then put
the barrel of his revolver in his mouth and pressed the trigger. Bye Bye Gonzo
journalist.
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| Courtesy Thompsonmurder.com |
Sylvia Plath
killed herself, as did Virginia Wolf. David Foster Wallace cashed it in way too
young by hanging himself. Richard Brautigan (a big influence on the young
Zandri) ate his piece. And check out this one, Peter Tyrrell, the Irish writer,
committed suicide by soaking himself in gasoline before lighting up one final
smoke. Now there’s a man who hated himself.
But there is
a kind of bright spot to all this literary carnage. Another one of my
influencers, Jim Harrison, contemplated suicide many times, but stopped just
short of it when he thought about his daughter. He died of natural causes while
writing a poem.
As for me, I
don’t see the sense in taking one’s own life before your regularly scheduled
time is up. Life is too damn short to begin with, and to be totally honest, I’m
having the time of my life and actually getting paid for it.
My problem
is not robbing myself of my life, but not being able to steal more years. But
the clock, she ticks away and there ain’t a damn thing we can do about it,
other than live the life we have as best we can. If you find yourself down and
out, remember, even the next beer and a pizza with extra cheese and pepperoni
is worth hanging around for.
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