I finished reading a Brautigan collection which included _In Watermelon Sugar_ and _Trout Fishing in America_. I finished _Trout Fishing_ in trout-fishing country, surrounded by fly-fishing supply places.
Brautigan killed himself, presumably after talking to a friend, Marcia, to whom he had dedicated/directed a number of poems.
After finishing the book, I thought about the author's suicide.
I've spent three days saddened about this event. This seems silly to me--there's no reason for me to mourn a death I had nothing to do with, the death of someone I don't know and would never have known.
Anyone else experience inappropriately timed sadness?