I was bummed today to read that an author I had only really just discovered (a bit late, ok, but I can’t be on top of it all) has gone the way of many a tormented genius, he’s hanged himself.

A friend of mine left me Consider the Lobster, his collection of journalism, with a pile of other books she didn’t want to lug back to the U.S. and the first essay  – his coverage of the annual porn industry awards in Las Vegas – was so smart, so fucking hilarious (I was snorting on the metro the whole time I read it), but also so poignant, and incisive, and nutty that, for me, he became an instant writer-hero.

Here’s some obits:

The Independent

New York Times

National Post

The Telegraph

Anyone who could get away with that many footnotes had to be some sort of evil literary genius.

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