The news Monday morning of Hunter S. Thompson's suicide hit me like a punch to the gut. Whenever a writer I admire passes on I become depressed. It means we will never get any other wonderful work from them. It doesn't matter that I hadn't read any of his new books, like Hey Rube or Kingdom of Fear. The books are always there for me to read eventually. It is the realization that the stack of books to read by Thompson will never grow taller.
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