Yesterday, I read The Washington Post's two page article on Thompson, written by Henry Allen. I noticed that not only did he quote the same passage I referred to--the "high-water mark"--he also made mention of young Thompson typing out The Great Gatsby. And there's also the reference to Thompson ending his life like Hemingway, a writer Thompson admired.

I think of the scope of Thompson's life, all the things he did, people he met, stories he wrote, and it just seems odd that in the space of a few short pages, the same seemingly minor events would appear. It's like once a person dies, all that's left of him--the man himself, not his work--is a series of trivial events, like in the Biography section of any actor on the IMDb.

I found my fisherman's hat and aviator sunglasses in a box yesterday and wore them while I edited (didn't buy any liquor, 'cause I wasn't in the mood). I randomly recited certain memorized passages and poems of the man, doing my best to imitate his mumbled, gutteral drawl. Honestly, it felt equal parts foolish, stupid, and pointless. Maybe because I didn't have an audience. Maybe because even if I had an audience, they would wonder why I was talking so weird and acting so strange and would you give me back my fucking beer, you asshole.

I put the hat and sunglasses back in the box and returned to editing. It looks like a two page write up in major newspapers is all the eulogy Thompson's gonna get, and he'd probably like it that way. Thompson, the man, doesn't need to be analyzed. He just needs to be read.

Res Ipsa Loquitor.