I realized shortly after I heard about Hunter Thompson's death that it would probably take a while for it to sink in. I really liked and respected Thompson, even though I'm furious at myself for only having read two of his books: the obligatory "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" and "The Rum Diary" (pehaps the best first novel I've ever read). It was hard to avoid the intuitive certainty that Thompson was one of the "good guys." Ditto for William Burroughs, whose death almost a decade ago (!) certainly came as an unwanted surprise, but didn't quite register until years later.

I didn't actually know either of these guys, of course. Nevertheless, their presence was reassuring. I felt a little safer in this world knowing that they were out there. Now that Thompson is gone, the zeitgeist is all the more menacing and unwelcome.