And if you get to Big Sur, stop by for a beer. There ain’t much to do here, so I have taken to inviting people down and then flogging them into a coma with my riding crop. Between guests, I work on the Great Puerto Rican Novel. Watch for it.
Cordially,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO LIEUTENANT COLONEL FRANK CAMPBELL:
Campbell, also an aspiring novelist, was still at Eglin Air Force Base, editing the Command Courier and writing fiction on the side. This letter contains one of Thompson’s first references to his Puerto Rican novel as “The Rum Diary.”
March 7, 1961
Manor House
Big Sur
Sirrah:
First off, you should understand that any beachboys, dishwashers or window-washers showing up at my place will be dealt with at the gate. I’ll have no human chancres spoiling my view; life here is tough enough without them.
Another thing you should understand is that, since leaving FWB [Fort Walton Beach], I have been a smashing success at everything except earning money. At times it makes me wonder … but then, as I look down at my great heap of short story and article carbons, I know the Big Money is just around the corner. Any day now, any day now, I shall be released.
Jerry Hawke’s information as to my activities is not only slanderous, but two years old. The fact is that I was mugging people in New York and had the hell beaten out of me by a gang of drunken writers. That is why I moved to the Catskills.
I then decided to beat them at their own game and wrote a very funny, thoroughly unskilled novel called Prince Jellyfish. It bounced four times in New York, but the reaction was encouraging enough to put the monkey on my back for good. Since then I have not held a job and doubt seriously if I ever shall. I have tried, mind you, but something about my manner seems to warn them off.
Since Prince Jellyfish I have pursued the Good Life in countless strange and erotic climes, ranging from Bermuda in the east to Puerto Rico & St. Thomas in the south, New York in the north, and San Francisco, Seattle and Big Sur in the west. If I were 20 years older I would think that I’d finally done the deed, because Big Sur is—to paraphrase the immortal Willie Stark6—“the tall walking nuts.” But a man on the crest of a new wave can hardly afford to retire, so all signs point to my imminent return to the strife and struggle of cold-war reality. At the moment I am engaged in hammering out a novel called The Rum Diary. It will probably hit the stands around September, and even if you’ve left Tennessee by then I’ll make sure a copy seeks out your vapor trail and tracks you down to finish the work I began in the office of the Command Courier.
If not for a deadly sag in my economy I would already be in Spain, waiting for you. Last June I left St. Thomas on a 47-ft. sloop, rode it to Bermuda, and there tried to effect a transfer to a boat headed for the Mediterranean. No dice. A strategic retreat sent me back to New York, thence to the west coast. I have been selling features (very sporadically) to the New York Herald Tribune and the Louisville Courier-Journal. This began in the Caribbean and has kept up. The Trib just bought a Big Sur piece, and yesterday I sent an expanded version of it to Playboy. They had seen a carbon of the one I sent to the Trib and asked me to give it a whirl. No guarantee, of course, and about a 75-to-one shot of getting my hand in the till. If I make it, however, I shall probably beat you to Spain.
I have acquired a “name” agent in New York (Elizabeth McKee), who is carrying me for god knows what reason, because all the stories I’ve sent her have bounced like golf balls. If she can stand it, I guess I can, too.
I presume you are still dealing with Sterling Lord.7 Or have you given it up? Hope not. Anyway, one of Lord’s boys is out here—one Lionel Olay (two novels, articles, screenplays), who seems to think Lord is the Jay Gould8 of agentry. Seems he can sell just about anything he gets his hands on—Kerouac’s stuff is a good example.
The house I’m living in here belongs, by way of inheritance, to Dennis Murphy (The Sergeant). There is so much talent on this coast that the Partisan Review sends men to cover our touch football games. The ball, incidentally, is compliments of the Eglin Eagles. A gift, of course—for services rendered.
That’s about the score on this end; if you have any questions, feel free to submit them.
As for the Eglin rat-pack, I lost everybody but [Peter] Goodman and Hawke. John Edenfield’s suicide was a hell of a shock to me. I ran across Pete on the streets of Greenwich Village last summer and he told me about it. He’s marrying (or has married) a pretty cute girl. At the time I met him he was directing one of her shows at a new cabaret theatre on W. 4th St. It was a little giddy for my tastes, but it seemed to go over pretty well. I talked to Jerry on the phone, but left before we could get together. One of his roommates (at Columbia) stormed in on me a few weeks ago and by a wild stroke of luck I managed to seize him a weekend place in Big Sur. He’s currently doing a 6-month stretch at Ft. Ord. John Clancy is his name, in case it strikes a chord.
Glad to hear Pug has not been cashiered. I guess anybody who knows Arthur Godfrey has it made in the AF these days. Guess I missed my chance. But I was a little green then, and the next time I shoot at Godfrey—or at Pug, for that matter—it won’t be from the columns of a Weekly Nowhere. If nothing else, living by your wits teaches you to hold your fire until you see the whites of their eyes.
I liked Gibney.9 When you see him be sure to tell him I said Hello and good luck in the Philippines.
As for Ballas10 … well … jesus … what can you say about a man like that? The next thing we know he’ll probably be buying the Playground News. Good old Ballas—a pragmatist if there ever was one.
If you get a chance, pick up something called The Ginger Man, by J. P. Donleavy. You can get it in paperback & probably at a decent library. I think you’d like it.
You know, in your run-down you left out the only one I really wanted to know about, the one guy at APGC-OIS who really had a future. Whatever happened to that jackass, Rosan, anyway?
And with that I close. Let me know if and when you head for Spain. If all goes well, I’ll probably see you there. Think on that.
Patriotically,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO VIRGINIA THOMPSON:
Thompson was devastated by news that his grandmother Memo was terminally ill. Unable to make it back to Louisville, he wrote his mother about his deep love for the one person who had never let him down.
March 18, 1961
Big Sur, California
Dear Mom:
Just returned from a week in San Francisco and found your two letters about Memo. I’ve been sitting here at the typewriter for almost an hour, trying to think what I can say, but nothing comes.
My picture of Memo is a far cry from what she seems to be now, and although it’s pretty selfish of me, I’m not making much of an effort to visualize what you must be going through. The more I understand about people, the more I realize just how good a person Memo is. At times she seems almost unreal, because it’s hard for me to believe that I could know a person that long without seeing some things I didn’t like. But now, in looking back on all those years, my only real memory of Memo is one of a genuine, long-suffering goodness. I haver never known anyone—and don’t ever expect to—so completely generous and forgiving and unfailingly loyal—even when all evidence made loyalty seem like so much wasted faith.
If she doesn’t recover from this, my only regret is that I couldn’t have published a book in time for her to see it. I’ve tried, but I could have tried a lot harder, and your letters made me brutally aware of all the time I’ve wasted. I’ve just sent a long article to Playboy, which they requested and which they may buy. If they take it I’ll have cracked one of the best markets in the country, and, if nothing else, I’ll have made the Big League. If you think Memo would be happier if you told her I’ve already sold it, then go ahead. Tell her it’s a long article on Big Sur and I sold it for $2,000. Frankly, I don’t really expect them to buy it, but then I didn’t expect the Cour
ier to buy those Puerto Rico articles either. I have learned better than to count on selling anything.
As for the news here, I went to San Francisco to find an apartment for Maxine Ambus, my “large female friend” from New York. I found her a good one on Telegraph Hill, which will be my base whenever I go into the city again. Sandy was with me, of course, and is now downstairs knitting me a sweater. We’re still happy here, still without money, and it looks like this situation may last for an indefinite time. I’m working on a new novel and hope to finish it by summer.
That’s about it for now. I’m so tired I can barely see. Tell Memo I love her and that I’ve always loved her—not just for all the help she’s given me, but because she’s such a damn good person. I wish I could be there to tell her goodbye, but this letter is the best I can do. It will seem strange to come home and not find her there, sitting by the window, and it probably won’t be until then that I’ll actually realize she’s gone. I’ll miss her, but I hope it comes quickly and painlessly. If there is such a thing as deserving a peaceful death, I think Memo has qualified many times over.
Love,
Hunter
TO WILLIAM J. KENNEDY, SAN JUAN STAR:
Thompson had left his gear, including boxes of correspondence, with Kennedy when he fled San Juan on a forty-seven-foot sloop. He had promised to give Kennedy either cash or books for the favor of shipping them back to America.
April 26, 1961
Big Sur
“Kennedy has spent years oiling every literary lever and power which could help him on his way, and there are medals waiting for him in the mass media.”
Give yourself ten points if you recognize that.11 If not, well … what can I say?
Your letter arrived today and I am disregarding my new policy of letting all letters sit for a week before answering them (letters always excite me and my natural tendency is to sit down and answer them immediately) for the simple reason that I am more excited at the prospect of getting my gear.
The thing for you to do, if you are worried about payment, is to give me a rough idea of how much it will cost, along with a list of which books you would take to liquidate the debt. I will then decide if I would rather pay you in money or books. In either case, I will see to it that our friendship is kept solvent. By that, I mean that if you want the cream of my book crop I will say no and send money. If, however, you constrain yourself, selecting only those tomes I have no use for, we can settle the thing without resorting to cash.
Your sun is on the wane, I think, for you will be unbearable if you ever get published. My only hope is to smack out The Rum Diary and steal your thunder to the extent that all but the first thirteen copies of your book (sold to family & friends) will be remaindered. It goes without saying—in answer to your question—that The Rum Diary is the potential high-water mark of 20th century literature. It is a novel more gripping than The Ginger Man, more skillfully rendered than The Sergeant, more compassionate than [James Agee’s] A Death in the Family, and more important than Lie Down in Darkness. These, as you know, are the only good novels written in the past five years. All the rest is ballast. (I now recall that LDID was done in 1950 … strike one.)
The Rum Diary is of course set in Puerto Rico and I feel there will be a great shrieking and tearing of hair in the New York office of Fomento12 when it comes out. This prospect is one of my main incentives. […]
In all seriousness, I wish you all the luck you will need in connection with your manuscript. I have come to the point where I believe all editors are vicious, myopic queers and I would be more optimistic for you if I thought there was at least a touch of the pansy in you.
Semonin, as you may know, is writing a book called “Collected Thoughts of a Tramp Thinker.” I imagine it will be good, but I think he will have trouble getting it between covers.
I, of course, will have the most trouble of all because my book will be Too Good. Or maybe just … Too Much.
Anyway, hello to Dana and keep hustling.
Niggardly,
H
TO BANKS SHEPHERD:
Thompson’s old Air Force friend had also decided he wanted to become a writer.
June 2,
1961 Manor House
Big Sur
Well, Mr. Shepherd, I hardly know what to say. First, of course, I deeply appreciate your interest in my problems. Every once in a while I get that old feeling that no one really cares—you know how it is—and to have your letter come on me today, unheralded and totally unforeseen, was indeed a heart-warming experience.
Unlike you, Mr. Shepherd, I do “have a claim” on literary talent, tenuous though it may be. On the other hand, I too work hard to find ways of stimulating people—often to the extent of seizing them by the scruff of the neck and shouting into their eyes. This, in itself, quite often produces problems.
But you say you’d consider it a favor if I’d tell you something of my work and particularly my special problems in getting work done through other people. Well now, Mr. Shepherd, I’m going to do my best to help you out on this. You sound like a decent fellow and if I can give you a hand I certainly will.
My circumstances are somewhat peculiar, in that I refuse to take a job, so when it comes to getting work done through other people I might be able to give you a few hints. I presume, of course, that you plan to throw up your job and become a writer, and let me warn you now that in order to do this you’ve got to know the ropes.
First you’ll have to acquire a woman and put her to work immediately, preferably in a high-paying job. This is mandatory, regardless of your solvency, because you will almost instantly go broke. Next, you’ll have to find a dwelling for little or no rent. For example, I pay $15 a month for a three-room house on the California coast.
Once you’ve solved these two very basic problems you’ll run into myriad smaller ones demanding constant attention. For instance, instead of cutting the grass—which would take quite a bit of time—I found a wounded deer, nursed it back to health, and now tether it on the lawn and let it eat its fill. Instead of buying meat, I simply walk back into the hills and shoot a deer or a wild boar. Instead of buying vegetables I force a woman to tend a garden and prepare all the meals. Instead of drinking whiskey I drink wine and charge it to the mailman. As for anything else I need, I simply invite people down from San Francisco for a weekend and give them a list of things I require to maintain my hospitality.
This should give you an idea of the sort of thing you’ll be dealing with. In addition, there are two golden rules: First, never hesitate to use force, and, second, abuse your credit for all it’s worth. If you remember these, and if you can keep your wits about you, there’s a chance you’ll make it. Provided, of course, you can write like a champion.
That’s about it, Mr. Shepherd. If I can be of any further assistance, just let me know.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO STERLING LORD:
After Lieutenant Colonel Frank Campbell wrote in March that Sterling Lord had taken him on as a client, Thompson decided to see if the “dean” of New York literary agents would be interested in his fiction as well. Unconventional writers of the time flocked to Lord because he had managed to sell Jack Kerouac’s On the Road to Viking Press.
June 15, 1961
Manor House
Big Sur, California
Sterling Lord
15 E. 48th
NYC
Dear Mr. Lord:
Enclosed are six stories and one article that you might be able to sell. For one reason or another—and I admit to the possibility that my fiction is simply unsalable—my present agent has not been able to place my work in the public eye.
Some of this stuff is currently circulating and you will not be free to sell it until I get my hands on the original copies—which I can and will do the moment I hear from you.
To be specific, the short Claude Fink13 piece is now at Contact. They don’t pay anything, so I don’t suppose it inte
rests you. The Big Sur article is at Rogue. If they want it, and if you want to deal with them, I’ll be happy to give you the commission. “Hit Him Again, Jack” and “Whither Thou Goest” are in the hands of my agent. If either of them interests you I will get them.
Ignoring for a moment the possibility that my work is totally useless, I think it seems fitting that someone should buy it. Whenever I inquire of my present agent as to the whereabouts of my stories I find they have just been bounced by The New Yorker, Mademoiselle, Gentlemen’s Quarterly, or some other worthy journal that I would not even read, much less try to write for. No doubt these are fine markets, but I have a feeling they are not avid for stories full of flogging, humping, goring and soul-rot.
But that is your field; I don’t know a damn thing about markets and, aside for the fact that Rust Hills has told me never to submit anything to Esquire (under my own name), I have had little contact with them. This is fine, except that it has put me in a state of great need. As a matter of fact I am mired in a bog of poverty and am counting on these stories to pull me at least part of the way out. At the moment I’m working on a novel called “The Rum Diary,” which should be finished by late summer. If you would care to deal with it, by all means let me know. It will be a whomping thing and will undoubtedly draw poor comment from Gentlemen’s Quarterly, Pop, One, Ebony and a good many others.
At any rate, please let me hear from you.
Thanks,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO STERLING LORD:
Lord had declined to take Thompson on as a client.
June 26, 1961
Manor House
Big Sur, California
Dear Mr. Lord:
Fortunately, the check for the Big Sur article took the sting out of your pompous and moronic rejection of my work.
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