hunter, hunter, hunter

I know I keep harping on this, but I think it’s important to understand why a man this brilliant would want to kill himself. I checked espn.com today to see what kind of info they had over there, considering it was one of his many employers.

Here’s what I have found…

First, according to this story, Hunter was on the phone with his wife when he killed himself. “‘I was on the phone with him, he set the receiver down and he did it. I heard the clicking of the gun,’ Anita Thompson told the Aspen Daily News in Friday’s editions.” That’s not all, “His son, daughter-in-law and 6-year-old grandson were in the house when the shooting occurred.” Also, “Anita Thompson, 32, said her husband had discussed killing himself in recent months and had been issuing verbal and written directives about what he wanted done with his body, his unpublished works and his assets.
His suicidal talk put a strain on their relationship, she said.
‘He wanted to leave on top of his game. I wish I could have been more supportive of his decision,’ she said. ‘It was a problem for us.'”

It’s all starting to make more sense. At first, I imagined him sitting at home alone with a gun. Now, it’s apparent that he was reaching out. He was looking for some validation of what he was going to do. From the accounts of his wife and son, it seems that they were not only expecting this, but kinda prepared for it.

Also on epsn.com is a series of articles called Remembering. The most important one is the one from Ralph Steadman. Here’s the opening paragraph, to titilate your senses…

“‘I would feel real trapped in this life if I didn’t know I could commit suicide at any time,’ he told me many years ago, and I knew he meant it. It wasn’t a case of if but when. He didn’t reckon he would make it beyond 30, anyway, so he lived it all in the fast lane. There were no first, second, third and top gears in a car — just overdrive. He was in a hurry. Drive your stake into a darkened heart in a red Mercedes Benz. The blackness hides a speeding tramp. The savage beast pretends. But never mind the nights, my love, because they never really happened anyway. So we wrote in a Beverly Hills house one drunken night. I wrote the stanzas — he wrote the chorus. Don’t write, Ralph, he said. You’ll bring shame on your family.”

Then, there’s all this stuff in the Remembering section at espn.com. All good reads, but kinda depressing, too.