I always read his book with a bit of crackerbread, a slice of bree, and a glass of dry sherry since I learned that his death was ruled a suicide. I used to read his writing with a juicy orange and a glass of New Coke when I thought he'd died while fucking his wife. But that just didn't seem appropriate after I learned I he'd died as a suicide. After I learned his death was a suicide, I moved his books from the shelf of writing by people who will go to heaven to the locked cabinet under my bed full of writing by people who are going straight to hell. It is a better reading, I've found. Harper Lee is nice and all, but when I want to get down with some writing, I crack the spine to my edition of "Lepers, Suicides, and Crack Hos." I can go through three boxes of Twizzlers, a six pack of PBR, and a packet of Gardenias Burgandy Kleenex (Our Most Soothing Tissue!) before I'm off of the copyright page.

A bit of fucking sadness. Please. A single tear for Primo Levi who survived the Holocaust.