Fear and Loathing in America Read online

  OK for now. This, plus the enclosed three pages, should give you something of an answer to your questions … or maybe I should say, “your letter.”

  Ciao,

  Hunter

  ***

  MEMO TO JIM SILBERMAN:

  Thanks for the good letter of Jan. 16 and sorry I didn’t reply sooner. I’ve had people here ever since I got back, and more coming. The rising tide, as it were. I’m trying to learn how to write in this situation. When I was doing the Hell’s Angels book nobody came to see me because they were afraid I’d ask for a loan … but now I’ve paid back all those loans, and the scene has changed by 180 degrees. At the moment I’m grateful to the supplicants who only write, instead of making personal appearances. I am also the victim of a momentary confusion in the national-action polarity; not even the front-runners know if the center of gravity is on the east or west coasts, so everyone’s in flux. I have one friend coming through from NY, with all his furniture, driving a rented van en route to L.A. Another, a musician, is coming from L.A. en route to Boston. Right now I have two potters from Montana in the house. Next week it’s a musician from Calgary. These are the ones I’ve confirmed. On Feb. 15 I get the Tangier shipment, coming to pick up the motorcycle they left in my basement. And then my brother, looking for a scent of the West. Selah.

  And now … for the root of your letter. I like your clutch of ideas; as a matter of fact I’m both amused and pleasantly surprised at some of the connections you make … but I don’t think it all sounds like a good way to open another book by Hunter S. Thompson. Probably this explains why we had trouble talking about the bones of the book in NY; we all know what the meat’s going to taste like, but the bone-structure is still a bit hazy on the screen … and the last way I want to clarify it is in terms of an essay.

  I don’t think that’s my gig at all. I write essays by accident, by injecting my own bias into the material even when I try to avoid it. This is what I meant when I said I’d write the same book, no matter what we decided to call it. But coming up with a title and a vague subject is not quite the same as structuring a book that I necessarily approach as a sort of major document. And I say “necessarily” because I’ll need that “big book” notion to keep me working. I could say a lot more about this, but by this time I figure you should know me well enough to understand the drift. I have no interest in writing a book that won’t be read … and I think the surest way down that tube is to lead off with an essay. Any essay, however brilliant. This is the age of scare-headlines—not essays, and the only way to suck the readers in is to jolt them off their rails so far that they’ll need an explanation for what jolted them. The “latent essay,” if you will. Some examples that come to mind: The Fire Next Time, The Other America, most of Oscar Lewis’ stuff17 … well, to hell with that list … it doesn’t seem to be proving my point.

  Which is, for good or ill, that I think this American Dream thing needs a narrative structure to hold it together. Hell’s Angels had that by accident, or because my involvement served as a narrative … and that’s all we’ll need for the next one. I can’t sit out here in Woody Creek and ruminate on the Death of the American Dream. That’s why I tried to impress on you—as subtly as possible, since Leon was handling the details—the importance of providing, in the contract, for adequate expense money to let me get involved. Otherwise, I’ll sit out here and serve up a bundle of pompous bullshit.

  As a start, my involvement will have to serve as the beginning of a narrative. But, once I get into the thing, I suspect I’ll find something tougher and not so Plimptonesque.18 In any case, I’ll want to zero in on details and action … and let the essays happen as they will. And that’s the least of our worries. I just delivered, standing in front of my own fireplace, what was probably a 40,000 word screed on “Why I Won’t Shoot Lyndon Johnson.” My mind is going so fast these days, and working on so many brutal edges, that it’s no trouble at all to rap off a verbal essay. The problem will be in lining it all out, so that every nervous bastard who reads five pages of the book will be compelled to read it all. And I don’t see a “lead-essay” as the fuse we’re looking for in that area.

  That’s a good concept: The Fuse; the reader lights it by becoming initially involved in the book—the first few pages—and then he has to be dragged (reluctantly, if possible, so as to traumatize his memory) all the way to the end … at which point he may or may not realize that he’s been forced, or duped, into reading an essay. Which hardly matters …

  The point is that I want at least a dim notion, in my own head, of a story line that will jerk reluctant readers from Beginning to End. On another level, I think the phrase for that is “render.” The story should be “rendered,” or maybe it would be more honest to say “the bullshit should be rendered.”

  The gig I have in mind is an opening research shot at the Pentagon, featuring attempts to interview the Joint Chiefs … by a man who got tired, many months ago, of seeing them referred to as a nameless, yet ominous, cabal that seemed to be in charge of almost everything crucial. I don’t really expect these worthies to indulge me, but I think their lack of indulgence will be the beginning of my narrative, to wit: “Who are these people who won’t talk to me? Where did they come from and why are they in charge? How far does their power extend? Where does their power originate? Why them, and not me?” And—once we’ve established some answers in the form of a pattern (or historical framework)—“Where now?”

  If you disagree with this, the overall tentative approach, I urge you to make yourself as clear as possible NOW. Because there’s no sense in my getting started on something you might not want or agree with. I’ve had enough arguments and bullshit, in the past year, to last me a lifetime … so I don’t want to court another accidental war by my failure to explain what I intend to do for $20,000 plus expenses. I assumed, after that friendly-elegant dinner at the Four Seasons, that we all understood that I was going to use the Joint Chiefs as a tool for getting at “The Death of the American Dream.” I don’t want to just Lewis decried the “culture of poverty” in studies of poor Latin Americans, such as his 1961 analysis, The Children of Sanchez. comment on it; I want to show it, and show it in terms of a narrative that will also be an exercise in selective judgement … so that even people who disagree with my triumphantly subjective thesis will have to come to grips with the book in order to quarrel with it. In a nut, I want to hold up a mirror and let the bastards argue with that, not me.

  Which boils down to the simple, flat and absolute fact that I have no intention of writing an Essay. That’s what critics are for, so let’s give them something to chew on. Details, madness, action … all leading, inevitably, to the theme of the book. But not in terms of just another well- (or ill-) qualified opinion; let’s do up a massive indictment, focusing on the murderers of the so-called “American Dream.” Let’s name these swine, and perhaps even turn the indictment around to zap the false prophets of a new world that never existed except as a gaggle of slogans. Or maybe not; I don’t know enough right now to say anything, for sure, about what I’ll finally write.

  I am sure, however, that I want at least a general agreement—between you and me and Shir-Cliff—before I gear down. So if anything I’ve said in this jangled and 6:05 a.m. letter seems like something we should talk about, let’s do it. And on that note, I’m hanging it up; four local Minutemen-types are due here in five hours for a shotgun orgy, and I’ll need some rest in order to shoot well enough to keep them nervous. OK for now …

  Hunter

  TO THE ALASKA SLEEPING BAG CO.:

  Thompson never could tolerate shoddy merchandise.

  January 29, 1968

  Woody Creek, CO

  Alaska Sleeping Bag Co.

  334 NW 11th Ave.

  Portland, Oregon 97209

  Gentlemen:

  I am returning the navy blue Everest Parka that I received from you two days ago. Your guarantee notes that “I may return merchandise within 10 days after delivery
and my full purchase price will be refunded.” So that is the purpose of this letter, and the carton to which it’s attached. In the carton you’ll find the parka, never worn and in absolutely new condition.

  I’m returning it for a very simple reason: I don’t think it feels or looks right on me, and I don’t think it’s as good a value as several other parkas I could buy here in Aspen for the same price. This is no fault of yours—except that your catalogue description led me to believe that I was ordering a much tougher and heavier parka than the one I received. But I suspect this was a matter of misinterpretation on my part, and for that reason I offer my apologies.

  In any case, I’m returning the parka and requesting a full refund, inre: your guarantee. Thanks.

  As you know, I ordered three other items when I sent the check that covered the parka: a canvas hunting coat, a leather vest, and a pair of leather moccasins. I trust these will be sent as soon as possible … but if there’s any problem, please send me a refund on these items also. My check, #253, was for $121.35.

  Sincerely,

  Hunter S. Thompson

  TO THE OVERSEAS PRESS CLUB:

  The Overseas Press Club offered its members group health insurance at good rates.

  January 30, 1968

  Woody Creek, CO

  Business Office

  Overseas Press Club

  54 W. 40th

  NYC 18

  Gentlemen …

  I seem to have lost contact with the OPC, which is par for the course except that I want to keep track of my Blue Cross group plan insurance. One of the bad aspects of the club was brought home to me recently, when I spent about two weeks in New York and had to spend about $700 on a hotel where the only other guest I knew was [TV variety-show host] Ed Sullivan. The point, of course, is that I’d have stayed at the OPC if it still offered rooms … and the secondary point is that I never even found time to get to the club, where my presence would have shown up very powerfully at the bar ledger.

  In any case, I wonder why I haven’t received any Blue Cross bills for awhile … and, for that matter, any bills for club dues. The last dues bill I got was for some massive amount—about five times what I’ve been paying for the past two or three years. Naturally, I discarded it. But since I’d like to retain my Blue Cross policy, I thought I’d write and inquire. Please bring me up to date. Thanks …

  Hunter S. Thompson

  TO SUE GRAFTON:

  Now one of America’s best-known mystery novelists, Grafton grew up in Thompson’s Louisville, Kentucky, neighborhood, three years behind him in school.

  January 31, 1968

  Woody Creek, CO

  Dear Sue …

  Your very elegant mash note arrived today, and although I’m not sure how to answer it, I thought I’d at least say “thanks.” I don’t get many letters like that, and probably it’s a good thing. … I wouldn’t get much work done. I don’t, anyway, for a lot of good reasons that range from simple diversions like drinking and skiing to other, murkier things that would probably be ominous if I gave them enough thought. Like my reasons for answering this letter….

  … aside from that one sentence, in yours, that would be reason enough for answering any letter, to wit: “It seems to me that we have vital business to conduct on a level that should threaten neither of our households.”

  Well … if that’s true, I guess we might as well have at it. But first you’ll have to be a little more specific. I’m not sure exactly what level of engagement would threaten your household, and I’m not particularly worried about mine—but from what you say about yourself, I get the impression that we might tend to misinterpret each other. I am not given to mysticism, for instance, or astrology. I smoke and drink constantly … but I guess I don’t have to make a list, since you’ve already read the book.

  Which reminds me that you were very recently “impressed on my consciousness,” as you put it, when my mother told me the library had just received your (first?) novel. I was curious, but I wasn’t in Louisville long enough to see it. It was my first visit in four years and, considering the possibilities, it was fairly pleasant. My mother still lives in the same house on Ransdell … and it just occurs to me that I remember almost exactly where you lived, but not the name of the street, although I think it was up a hill from Willow, just off the park. I can’t imagine why I remember that … or do I? Maybe I’m wrong. For that matter, I barely remember you, except as Ann’s little sister. Your description of me as a lurking, sinister figure, menacing young girls on Longest … well, I did have a cracked brown leather jacket, army surplus with broken zippers on the slanted chest pockets … but most of those worthies you mentioned were among my brother’s gang. I ran with an older gang, more wicked; we sold dope at the Oatey-Forbes magazine counter, to finance our candy bar habits. At least that was the word on Longest, and it probably still is. My youngest brother, Jim, told me the word at Atherton was that I’d joined the Hell’s Angels; the book was only an afterthought.

  Anyway, I got to Louisville on Christmas eve and left a few days later for New York. Ever since the book came out I’ve been involved in fantastic legal hassles: breaking contracts, trying to fire an agent who wouldn’t quit, haggling endlessly about new contracts for new books … but I think it’s finally settled. I have two books to deliver by June 1—the novel, and a paperback quickie aimed at LBJ. Then I have another to deliver about a year and a half from now. Random House calls it “The Death of the American Dream,” and I call it “The Joint Chiefs.” Which hardly matters. It’s going to take a vast amount of travel and brain-twisting; I have no idea what I’m going to write, but if nothing else I expect to learn a lot, and that’s the only part of writing I enjoy. The actual work—the typewriter horrors—I approach with fear and loathing. Maybe that’s why I’ve written almost nothing for the past year; I wasn’t broke enough, I didn’t need the money, so all I did was a few articles on hippies.

  And so much for all that … except for your question about the novel The Rum Diary. I wrote it a long time ago, but after it bounced once or twice I put it away. Then, after I’d agreed to write a book on the Angels, I sold the novel to Pantheon almost by accident. But Pantheon is a division of Random House, so RH took the novel, and about that time I decided to completely rewrite it. But I didn’t have time until I finished the HA book, and after that I got involved in the contract fight. So it’s still un-rewritten. I’m not sure how easy it’s going to be to get back to fiction, but I’ll know more about it when I get started. Right now I’m not thinking about it.

  You said you’re “writing” your sixth book. Have you published five? That would be fairly incredible. In any case, why don’t you send me a copy of whichever one you like best. Or tell me the title, and I’ll order it here. Or I’ll trade you straight across for a graffiti-laden copy of mine.

  OK for now. Is this what you expected from the wicked wizard of Longest? I’m getting meaner and my hair is falling out, exposing numerous scars. I doubt that you’ll ever find out who I am, but I’m flattered that you’re curious and your letter was the best thing I’ve read in months. Thanks again …

  Hunter

  FROM OSCAR ACOSTA:

  El Paso, Texas, native Oscar “Zeta” Acosta was a radical East Los Angeles lawyer known for representing poor Chicanos and challenging race-based exclusions from California’s grand juries. Thompson had met Acosta in Aspen in 1967, and would make him notorious as the restless and brutish “300-pound Samoan attorney” of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. This letter was the first in their long, strange, and sometimes serious correspondence.

  January 31, 1968

  Woody Creek, CO

  Grand Hotel

  10th S. El Paso St.

  El Paso, Texas

  Hunter,

  True that most men live lives of quiet desperation, with the emphasis on “most.” Then there’s the freakheads, flopouts, flamethrowers and narcs. Christ, three days in Mexico and I’ve been screwed several times (br
oads), drunked up, doped up, in jail, fights, blah blah! In that order.

  But my head is good and my spirits never in better shape.

  My friend wasn’t home when I arrived late Friday. Checked into a cheap hotel in Juarez with roaches for room mates. I had $185 with me so I put $150 of it in the “safe.” Went out and did the town. Returned next morning to check out. Asked the clerk for my loot. What loot? Señor. Here’s the receipt, Señor. Sorry, Señor, there is no money of yours in the safe. You mother fucker, Señor, where’s my dinero?

  Turned out the guy who took my money was not THE clerk, but a “mere” acquaintance who was watching the store while the REAL clerk was out eating. So I cussed the bastard out and went into my room to pack. Five minutes later the inevitable knock of the narc knocks on my door … Señor, this man claims you have insulted him. You goddamn right I insulted him, the stupid shit! Blahblah, argue, spit, cuss, Señor. I was arrested for insulting the dignity of the man and using obscene language in the presence of others, mainly two old farts sitting in the lobby.

  I wasn’t thinking. I could have bought them off for five bucks each, there were two of them. But my dander was up so I flounced into jail knowing that justice would prevail.

  I had heard of Mexican jails and Mexican justice before but since those telling the stories were gringos I always believed that it was a combination of prejudice and unfamiliarity with the language … nope!

  I don’t have time to describe it justly, suffice it to say crud, crap, cold, stupidity, stench, barf, ugliness … dilapidated is too nice a word. Sixty ugly poor drunks in a room 8 × 40. Since I was late I had to stand. I had maybe two cubic feet to myself. There was no roof and we had a cup of beans for breakfast and a cup of beans with a slice of bread for dinner. What you think this is, a hotel, Señor? The cold here, when it is, is worse than in Aspen. My balls ached, no sleep for two days, dirty, grubby and still shit faced I suffered for 24 hours. Until my trial.