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The book Sense of an Ending describes such a grand life as "the life of literature".

Hemingway lived the life of literature.

Great article. I visited his grave in Ketchum, ID. It's a short walk off the main highway.

Anyone who writes fiction (or reads fiction!) is in his debt. I named my first cat "Nick" in homage to the fictional Nick Adams.

Seeing such conviction on his part to end an underlying physical suffering, and I can't help but think for the innumerable time: while there's little I can be sure of about the future, the disdain towards our present barbarism towards end of life choices and care will be a stain on the current generation much like lobotomies were of an era past.

That such a great mind should have unnecessarily been burdened with degrees of suffering as to prompt such extreme measures is beyond me.

What is wrong with the young and healthy to deem the pains of the old or sick to be stoically beared, as if unaware that we too shall one day carry that weight?