celebrity death
Thoreau would drown you in Walden Pond.
Emily Dickinson would find a way to keep you isolated for the rest of your life.
Hunter S. Thompson: WE STOPPED IN BAT COUNTRY!
I think I’m done.
Shakespeare would probably be kind enough to let you choose your own tragedy.
E.B. White: You’re never, ever stop crying.
Stephen King? Don’t ask me. You’re just plain fucked.
Neil Gaiman would whimsy you to death, then harvest your soul.
Please stop me from continuing. God help us all.
Ray Bradbury would just sit you down and zealously but poetically ramble on about colonizing Mars for like four hours.
Nathaniel Hawthorne? I hope you like A’s, because a ten ton red one is about to crush you.
And Byron? He’d mope you to death. And Percy Shelley would drown you.
What, too soon? Too much late-Romantic melodrama and tragedy?
Ginsberg would obviously howl, shattering glass around him. Kerouac would just run you over with a car.
I wish that there was a version of Mortal Kombat, except with writers.
Mary Shelley’s finishing move is obvious. So is Poe’s. Philip K. Dick makes you spend the rest of your life questioning whether you exist or not. If you get taken down by James Joyce, you can only speak a confusing but beautiful language.