My gimpy search engine doesn't open the link, but I've read much of Hemingway and a few biographies. He had a family history with his father committing suicide and probably struggled with depression much of his adult life. However most people who don't commit suicide also don't write a shelf of books, some of them classics, nor win the Nobel Prize. I count the writing much more than the prize. Perhaps arbitrarily, but I do not equate peoples' lives with the circumstances of their departure. I don't think of suicide or a slow, ungraceful, or painful exit as some sort of a judgement on the life. Ernest was troubled, could be a bully, drank way too much always, and did write some less wonderful books along the way, but he got it done to a degree that was exceptional. I'm sorry he had a hard time at the end, but that erases nothing. He got the product on the page, often brilliantly, which is what he set out to do. I've always been intrigued by the rivalry between Hemingway and Faulkner; love both their works. Hemingway took American English in the twentieth century and discovered its meaning and music on the page. William delved back into the history of the South and made it speak in a new and fantastical way. Which is better? I say yes.