Perhaps it would be best if Mr. Arkin, wearing a dingy t-shirt and stained khakis, locked himself into a small room lighted by a lone, unsheathed incandescent bulb strung from a wire, supplied with a bottle of store label whiskey and a loaded Browning 9mm semi-automatic pistol, drank the whiskey, cried apologies to his absent mother, and discharged a single, lethal round into his angry and imbalanced head, ending a life whose pinnacle was to anger men and women smarter, braver, and stronger than he.