Anthony Bourdain purportedly died today. A suicide. He was a man of vices and demons, worn proudly and used (mostly) productively.

I don’t believe there’s anything after death, but Bourdain took his last epic voyage into that unknown space today. If there is a place beyond, he’s soaking it in, listening to the locals, and following his stomach to its lesser trod corners.

It’s quaint to call him an inspiration. He was a fantasy. At times both viscerally human and mythical, we could overlay our own hopes for a wider lived experience upon him. I’ll miss his cantankerous voice. Most of all though, he threaded the needle between solipsist and collectivist sherpa in a way no one else could. He was the object and the lens. It was always beautiful.