In the wake of so much that’s being said and written about Thompson this felt like a quiet little haiku. It’s very straight ahead, well-written, and most importantly, it captures something of Thompson’s spirit without trying too hard. It’s short and sweet and feels personal, while still managing to be about Hunter (one of the regrettable things that happens with Thompson eulogies is that writers feel like it’s the right moment for them to try on their Gonzo hats). It leaves you with a lingering sense of HST’s intense, burning aliveness—a sense that, in light of his suicide, is an important thing to remember…. to remember that even though he was eccentric and often destructive, he was still on the side of life. In an odd way, this could perhaps be played alongside Linda Lavin’s memories of Arthur Miller, another great writer we’ve recently lost.