Reading an autobiography after the author has died from the disease that he was writing about is an interesting perspective. 

Mostly, I just felt a lot of sadness reading this, sadness for how the medical community had let him down, including all of these detox programs that have no regulation or evidence-based practice, sadness for his mental illnesses beyond just addiction that were never properly treated, sadness for his loneliness, and sadness for our collective loss. There was a lot of wit and genius and humanity there and I'm glad he gave us a glimpse, even though much of the time, it felt like he was relying on humor in his writing to blunt the reality. He also had some very toxic views of women that was painful to read.