From New York Magazine's piece on the recent suicide of renowned feminist scholar, Carolyn Heilbrun:

"'The thing about suicide is that it is indeterminate,' says Susan Gubar, Heilbrun's friend and a professor at Indiana University. 'The only person to testify with any authenticity is God. Everyone else is bullshitting.'"

I've come to agree with Bukowski. In "Post Office", he writes about having the knife at his neck, seeing a finger painting his daughter, Marina, had made for him, and realizing that he couldn't do it: "I decided that if I was going down, I was taking seventeen of these fuckers with me."

Some days, I even know which seventeen.