This book is not a suicide note.Ten days afterEdouard Levehanded in the manuscript ofSuicideto his publisher in2007,he hanged himself in his apartment.He was 42. Two years afterJean Amery'sOn Suicidewas published in1976, the author took an overdose of sleeping pills.He was 65. In1960, some eighteen years afterAlbert Camushad raised & - so he thought - resolved the question of suicide inThe Myth of Sisyphus, he was killed in a car accident. He is alleged to have said that dying in a car crash is the most absurd of all deaths. The absurdity of his death is compounded by the fact he had an unused train ticket in his pocket.He was 46.Let me say at the outset, at the risk of disappointing the reader, that I have no plans to kill myself ... just yet. Nor do I wish to join the chorus of those who proclaim loudly against suicide & claim that the act of taking one's own life is irresponsible & selfish, even shameful & cowardly, that people must stay alive whatever the cost.Suicide, in my view, is neither a legal nor moral offence, & should not be seen as such. My intention here is to simply try to understand the phenomenon, the act itself, what precedes it & what follows. I'd like to considersuicidefrom the point of view of those who have made the leap, or have come close to it-we might even find that the capacity to take that leap is what picks us out as humans. I want to look atsuicideclosely, carefully, & perhaps a little coldly, without immediately leaping to judgements or asserting moral principles like the right to life or death. We have to looksuicidein the face, long & hard, & see what features, what profile, what inherited character traits & wrinkles emerge. Perhaps what we see when we look closely is our own distorted reflection staring back at us.