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I just read on the net that 'gonzo' journalist Hunter S. Thompson pulled a Hemingway and did himself in. Gun to the head. Literary immortality guaranteed.

Never read much of Thompson -- his stuff was too topical, too of-the-times for me to get into very much. His work kind of slipped by me, like the Beats, who I've still yet to read. He pioneered a kind of reckless journalistic style that shook things up and took the government and American society to task for all their moral failings. He was played in the movies twice, by Johnny Depp in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and by Bill Murray over twenty-five years ago in a film (unseen by me) called Where the Buffalo Roam.

Thompson wrote for www.espn.go.com until his death, and his last article was about 'shotgun golf', a new, more-than-slightly lunatic idea of his that he talks about with Bill Murray. It's a strange article, and fun, and, in light of what's happened, creepy and sad, too.

Suicide is one of those things that can't be explained, rationalized, figured out. Doesn't matter if you're a famous writer or the snowmobile repairman down at the garage, the one with the lazy right eye; the end result is the same, and the resulting sorrow and confusion is just as intense for those left behind.

But it's also kind of a taboo in our culture, isn't it? We don't like to talk about it all that much, yet it exists, and it's real, and it's daily, in Canada and Cambodia and Japan.

Speaking of Nippon, the suicide rate over there is freakin' huge; just today, I read that an executive of Seibu, one of the big rail companies in Japan, did himself in in light of some investigation into the company's wrongdoings. If you've done something wrong, it's the noble thing to do in Japan, offing yourself; it gives you a dignity in death you lacked in life.

I used to wonder why there were so many mirrors looming over the railway tracks in Tokyo, until I read that it was done to prevent people from jumping in front of the trains; psychologists believe that if you see your own reflection before you take the leap, you might think twice. (The trains would always be delayed because of suicide jumpers, and the families of the victimes would be presented with the bill. There was even an announcement that if you were going to kill yourself, could you please kindly not do it at rush-hour, thereby saving the inconvenience of thousands of passengers?)

So now another famed writer has been added to that infamous list headed by Hemingway and Mishima and Plath. A sad club to a part of. We won't know why Thompson decided to do it; we never do. People have reasons that even reason can't persuade.

But let me just say this: If you ever, even for a moment, for whatever reason, even contemplate joining that list, stop. Take a breath. Pick up the phone. Switch on the net. Check your e-mail. Call your friend. E-mail me, even. Breathe again. (Oh, but that won't happen to me, you think, and you're probably, most definitely right, but I'm just saying: thoughts are things of their own, with their own erratic orbits, so you have to be prepared for where they may lead. You have to guard against your own levels of tolerance.)

Nothing's gained when someone loses like that, loses the only game we're all playing, all the time, like it or not. The world always unknowingly mourns and contracts when death comes via this method. It's like a law of nature or something, this galactic sense of futility.

There is always someone out there to share your pain. There is always someone out there to listen to your voice. There is always a way up, even if you don't believe that, and you don't even have to believe it; it's enough to believe that others believe it, and they can pull you up, one yank at a time.

Immortality is not guaranteed, no, and neither is the moment after next, but what you do have is this moment, right now, in your hands. Don't be afraid to share it.