He took to parachuting because it, along with sailing and aviation,
is one of the more reasonable paths to self-destruction. 

The bottle, the pistol, poetry; all vices. 

Diseases, in fact.  

But passion, it’s the stuff of living. 

Besides, hurling oneself toward Earth and family is the clearest loyalty. 

Who can hate something that, after clawing its way toward the heavens,
throws itself back toward the less perfect?

Who can hate something that fights its way to the verge of Eden,
a breath shy of immortality,
and instead reaches and jumps toward the lower, screaming atmosphere? 



Fighting for life has become the only virtuous path away from it.

Living is the only proper way to die.  

So, he took to hurling.