Herbie was always a crazy dog. He was witty and daring, always the first one to play a prank. I remember, when we were at school he could have had any one of us girls just for the asking. He played bass in the school band and of course he was captain of the football team. Later he gave himself airs as a poet, quoted Verlaine and John Lennon and enthused about Arthur Rimbaud who was a poet and a dealer in arms and lived in a brothel. Herbie always wanted to be someone he just didn't know who: pop star or poet or sportsman of the year or all of them together. He was always on about "the poetry of adventure" or "the adventure of poetry". It must have been something like that he was looking for, when he climbed frozen waterfalls in the winter or dived from the roof of Ramada Hotel with his parachute. Later he hiked through the Sahara on cross country skis sponsored by a mineral water company. And he crossed the Behring strait on his surfboard. He almost got drowned then, but the camera team in the helicopter was under strict orders not to intervene. We all liked Herbie and came to see his lectures and multimedia shows, and he gave us his books "The Poetry of Adventure" dedicated to "my unforgettable Susie" (or Ellen, or Sonja). My youngest one - I already had two then, how time flies - loved to be lifted by him with one finger, and to the big one he once gave his famous cap with the brand name of his greatest sponsor. Of course he had cupboards full of these caps, but my boy didn't know that. Last week they found him at the convention hall where his show should have been. He had hanged himself with his climbing rope right in front of the screen. His manager of course tried to hush it up but it came out anyway: He hung there from the ceiling stark naked and had covered his body with all the stickers of his sponsor companies. And on his chest he had written with lipstick: "THE POETRY OF ADVENTURE". He was always a crazy dog.