OK, the man is pounding again. Thanks for your good letter and be sure to write me in South America. Take care of things at home and keep me posted. See you when I get back.
Love,
H
TO LIONEL OLAY:
While Thompson was traveling throughout Latin America, Olay became one of his most frequent correspondents.
April 17, 1962
GPO Box 1049
NY 1, New York
Lionel—
Damn good letter from you, my man. I was beginning to think you didn’t write anymore except for Big Money. And Mr. Thompson, he don’t pay much.
But he kept on working, like you said, and last Friday the 13th he handed over a “finished” novel to an agent—the same one rumored to be dealing with an unpublished novel by Willie Kennedy of San Juan. Whom Mr. Thompson will see next week and get drunk as hell with and shout all night on the aims of art and the general rottenness of those In Trade. And then, after spiritually disemboweling all the world’s merchants, Mr. Thompson will shove off for South America and begin the long hot agony of trying to keep alive on free-lance journalism.
That’s my plan in a nutshell. I’ve been long delayed here, fighting with that stinking book, and now when I sit down to read these 366 pages that it took me 18 months to create, it simply seems like a waste of time. Right as I was finishing mine, I read a book called Out of Africa by Isak Dinesen, and it almost broke me down. I am going to do a lot of thinking before I start another book, which maddeningly enough, is already creeping into outline form. This writing is like cocaine and I’m damned if I can figure out why people keep at it. Aside from everything else, sitting on my ass all that time gave me a whopping case of piles. Where is the percentage?
As you observed, it is very easy to give advice. Usually the spirit in which the advice is given is more important than the advice itself. For me anyway. Which is why I appreciated your letter. Most of what you say is true, I think, but like most young writers I am a natural ingrate and will always think that my work and my views are above and beyond advice—at least until I finish one thing and can get far enough away from it to see it clear and mean like a girl who drives you mad when you’re drunk and then looks like hell in the morning. I hope I won’t see this novel like that, but I expect I will. Probably in six short months. Anyway, I have been drunk alone since I turned it in, ripping and roaring around New York, getting thrown out of bars, getting in fights, one auto wreck, abusing friendships and generally going to pieces after all those months of a discipline I never believed I could maintain. It is a great feeling to finish a book, even if it is worthless.
Now I am packing & getting shots and hustling to get off. I plan to see Kennedy around Monday, stay a few days, then off to Caracas in chaos. I have enough $$ for about a month. After that, le déluge. If you know anybody who might buy a book full of flogging and fighting and fucking, by all means let me know. It is called The Rum Diary, which should tell you quite a bit.
Your success is overwhelming and I hope to god you can do a good play. It’s about time somebody did. And what is this book you’re doing for Doubleday? Novel? I hope to christ it won’t come to me via the DD One-Dollar Book Club, because it is a point of honor with me to welsh on those things and I’d hate to think I was doing you out of some money. Anyway, the fact that you’re about to quit and go up the mountain to write is the best news anybody has sent me in a long time. Just the fact that you are out there will be a sort of beacon in the back of my brain, and when I finish this South America business I’ll do my damnedest to get out there with my big meatmaster rifle and contribute something to the table. More than anything else, I miss those quiet mornings in the hills and the feel of a big gun on my shoulder and the peaceful excitement of sneaking up on a big buck. That is the nuts, my man, and nobody yet has shown me anything to beat it.
I have kissed Sandy several times for you, and if I could get my hands on Daryl I’d do the same with her. I am plagued with a mounting suspicion that time is going to force me to leave a lot of fine women undone. There is just too goddamn much to do and too many places to be all at once. There are nights when I want to be in San Francisco and New York and Rio and Madrid at the same time, and it seems unjust that I can’t. If I had my way I’d be in love all the time all over the world with a rifle in one hand and a typewriter in the other and a bellyful of good whiskey. This limited existence is a shitty deal.
But there is no sense bothering you with these gripes, since next week I’ll be setting up a tremendous din in Kennedy’s living room, the likes of which he hasn’t heard since my last outburst. I can see it all now—Dana will stay up till about midnight, and give up when I begin pacing. Then Kennedy and I will shout at each other until one of us caves in from rum. I am looking forward to it with a real eagerness.
Well, that’s my story. I’ll send the good word from South America and when you get up on that mountain, pull off a few rounds for me. By the time I get there I’ll expect you to have a good line on all the local boar and enough four-point bucks to keep the adrenaline flowing. And while you’re at it, I guess you might as well write something good. They say it helps.
OK, HST
TO MR. AND MRS. JOSEPH BAUMGARTNER:
Before leaving America, Thompson left Agar in the care of the Baumgartners, and offered them a few last-minute tips. He already missed his dog terribly.
April 20, 1962
New York City
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Baumgartner:
Well, you’re probably as surprised as I am to find that I’m still in New York. It has been a very hectic few months, full of constant writing and with trips to Boston, Phila., and Washington to keep me busy. There were times when I considered asking you to ship Agar to New York, but I never thought about it very long. He could never be happy here—or in any city apt., for that matter—and it would only have been selfish of me to bring him. Now and then I see a Dobe on a leash, out for a brief walk in the evening, and I always feel sorry for them because I know how much happier they’d be with space to run and be free.
Well, that’s that. On Monday evening I’m leaving for South America. One of my assignments will be to cover the World Soccer Championships in Chile; this will be in June and I’ll be working for the same paper I was going to work for in London.11 I’ll also be working for the Chicago Tribune, so you might watch the Sunday paper (usually the travel section) for some of my things. As for how long I’ll be gone, I can’t say right now, but will definitely keep you posted. I might return in the summer, or I might stay longer, depending on what comes up. South America is so big and so full of activity that I can only guess what I’ll run into.
I hope this will not cause any problem where Agar is concerned. There is no place in the country where he’d be any happier than he is with you, so unless he’s becoming difficult for you to keep, I’d much prefer to leave the situation as is. On the other hand, I don’t want to impose on you, so let me know the moment any problem arises. You can always reach me through my address in Louisville (2437 Ransdell Ave.).
As I said before, if there ever comes a time when you want to breed Agar, it is fine with me and of course any stud fee will be yours. I know what it is to feed a Dobe every day and there were times when I worked as hard for his food as I did for mine. I am also very curious as to how he’s doing in those shows you mentioned. He is constantly on my mind and I miss him as much now as I did three months ago. When a person spends as much time on the move as I do, he becomes more than normally attached to the few tangible things he can call his own. I feel somewhat the same way about my guns, which are stored in Louisville, and I look forward to the day when I can settle somewhere with a brood of Dobermans and not do anything but hunt and write. This traveling is fine at times, but at other times it’s very wearing and you get very lonesome for all the things that go with having a home.
I hope your weather is better by now, and that Agar is getting plenty of exercise. By all means drop me a
line whenever you can, and I’ll try to be better about answering than I was this time. Most days I am so worn out with writing that I can’t face the idea of writing letters, but now that I’ve finished that book I was working on, I have more time and energy for the normal things. Let me say again how much I appreciate your keeping Agar, and working with him. It is the best thing that could have happened and I know now that I’d never have forgiven myself if I’d sold him to some stranger, as it looked for a while like I might have had to do.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
PS—I too had trouble getting him to come inside when I called him, and at first I thought I could cure him by spanking, but I soon realized that this only made him more reluctant to come and I gave up. Yet even after he learned everything else and minded perfectly on all other occasions, I could never be sure he’d come in when I wanted him to. He would just stand there and dare me to try and catch him, and whenever he was ready to come in, he would. He seemed to know there was nothing I could do about it, and of course he was right. I think he was just reminding me that he could be independent when he felt like it.
TO PAUL SEMONIN:
After spending ten days with William Kennedy in Puerto Rico, Thompson landed in Aruba, about which he wrote a story for the National Observer. He spent nearly a week on the island before hitching a ride aboard a smuggler’s boat headed for Puerto Estrella, Colombia.
May 5, 1962
Aruba
Dear Spic:
I have too much to tell you to even get started on a small sheet like this one. Which is why I am using it. The big noise will have to wait. I just wanted you to know what happened to me if you don’t get any word for several months.
My situation is as follows: I am in Aruba with $30; tomorrow afternoon I have a free ride to Colombia aboard a small sloop that will also carry a load of contraband whiskey; I may be in jail within 48 hours—a Colombian jail; if I get to Barranquilla, my goal, I will have no more than $5; what happens then is up to god. It is an odd situation when the best that can happen to a man is that he might arrive in South America with $5. Right now my big worry is jail; my second biggest worry is having all my gear stolen (specifically, camera gear), which would cripple my plans severely. My only hope for money rests with the fate of 5 identical articles I sent from San Juan. If they are used, I may have anywhere from $20 to $100, over and above my $5, when I get to Barranquilla.
This moving again is a wild and greasy feeling. I am red-brown and peeling, full of rum and Dutch beer, lying constantly, plotting without cease, and generally running amok. I am staying with a Dutch journalist and his wife here and they are treating me well indeed. I sent off two more articles today and five rolls of film for developing. Maybe something will come of it.
I spent 10 days in San Juan and did almost nothing but drink and talk with Kennedy. He was excellent beyond any expectations, jobless and full of hell and vinegar—a champ if ever the word still goes. San Juan is more gutless than ever and overflowing with American queers—so many that the government is investigating the influx. They are poking a four-lane highway toward the Loíza River. It is already to the Yacht Club, but the rest of the road is miraculously—if temporarily—the same. Another few months and it will be four-lane asphalt.
(Just killed a scorpion that crawled out of my camera bag. The other day I found one in my coat-sleeve.)
Well, I am getting too sleepy to write and tomorrow is Ugly Day. God only knows what will happen once I go aboard. It is terrifying to think of landing, via smuggler boat, in South America, with only $30 and 400 miles between me and the nearest town. Only indians where we beach. No hablo. No comprendo. No tengo. I am going to have to do a lot of smiling. Send word on you—I feel the contact slipping.
Hunter
TO WILLIAM J. KENNEDY:
Stuck in Aruba, Thompson wrote Kennedy thanking him for his hospitality in Puerto Rico and worrying about his pending voyage to Colombia via smuggler’s boat.
May 10, 1962
Aruba
Bill—
Ok, I was in a hell of a hurry this morning and forgot to enclose this note to the Herald. Here it is, as mild and inoffensive as I could make it. Please relay the package on to the most prospective buyer.
I meant to write this letter to Dana and thank her for the patience, food, hospitality, and general decency that was accorded me during my prolonged visit. Without her, we would both have been in the nervous ward after three days.
I am still in Aruba, of course. The damn smugglers failed to leave on schedule and put it off till tomorrow. Like Trans-Carib. These spics are all the same. God damn them, anyway. But since the ride is free I cannot do much bitching. The Dutchman I am staying with is getting nervous, I think. He and his wife are both excellent people and took me in like a lost dog. I did my damnedest to bug the publicity tour and succeeded in destroying the morale of one of their models, if nothing else. I think I also destroyed Alexis’ morale,12 but that is all in the game.
I tell you, Kennedy, I nearly had my hands on it. For 24 hours the whole world went bright. A beautiful woman is such a wonderful creation as to make all novels seem like scum. It is enough to make a man believe in god. A novel is permanent, of course, and beauty isn’t—but that only adds to it. On Monday I was ready to come back to San Juan, but luck was with me and I got raving drunk with the Dutchman. The impulse is still with me, but I think I have it under control. Christ, I hope so. It could finish me. I think it had something to do with Dana’s influence.13
Enough of that. I know it is hell on you to go out and meet the postman and get nothing but letters from me—full of requests, at that. This is the last one, I think. Those books, of course. But then that is pretty old. I am laboring under the impression that you mailed all my articles immediately. If not I am done for. I now have $30 and will get to Barranquilla with about $5—if I am not jailed en route. People here are not very optimistic.
I need not go into any long paean concerning my stay there. It was a hell of a fine thing and when I land in a Colombian jail I will have a lot to think about. Needless to say, I want to be kept up to date on the status of “One by One”—also the other, newer. Also, needless to say, I will send word on all obits for The Rum Diary. And maybe, as I said, I’ll have Sandy send it down to you for a quick tangling with madness.
In retrospect, your writing was a lot better and a lot tougher than I expected to find it. That scene with the guy taking off his clothes still bothers me. I don’t know him at all and I don’t have a feeling that he made his point. Personally, I would have him locked up as a disturbing nuisance. A rapist you can get a hold of, but an exhibitionist is quite a different thing. I am tempted to be funny here, so I’ll cut it off. The best I can say is that I saw your point, but it didn’t bounce like it should have—I didn’t feel that guy had proved anything.
The rest of that sequence was good and convincing. Maybe the wind-up would have been truer if the guy had made a royal ass of himself and he realized it. It is my experience that that is the way those things usually turn out. But maybe you are luckier.
It is silly for me to wish you luck with the book(s), but I am coming to the conclusion that luck is more important than I’d previously thought. I would advise you to go to more parties, laugh more often, slap a few backs, flatter every writer and editor you can corner, go to NY every few months and give a literary tea—that should do it. All in all, I don’t give either of us much hope for seizing the real money. The next best thing is to give up the rum and make your own beer—and maybe give up the children for their own good.
In the meantime I will be scrubbling around in the Andes, grinding it out, getting drunk when I can, and trying to pick up a few native handicrafts as a sideline. (I just recall that you accused me of being a liar. That is untrue—it is the words I chose. It is all in the words, the hump and roll of them.)
I leave you with that. And a final word of thanks to Dana. The next time I come I ho
pe to be successful enough to bring a side of beef or something like that. Maybe just a case of rum.
OK. You can mail me in a week or so at the U.S. Consulate in Barranquilla. Unless we get seized. If that happens … well … I don’t know.
Hunter
TO PAUL SEMONIN:
While in Barranquilla Thompson had spent an evening drinking whiskey with a group of local Indians and telling them he was a good friend of First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy.
May 26, 1962
En route to Bogotá
Yours reached me this morning, my man, and I can only say that … ah well … there is at this moment a beetle the size of god’s ass on the table about six inches from the t-writer. It is worse than anything Kafka ever dreamed, so big I can see its eyes and the hair on its legs—jesus, suddenly it leaped off and now circles me with a menacing whir.
I face eight days of this. We have just left Barranquilla after fucking around all day with seven barges of beer for the interior. Now we are pushing them up the river and a huge beam of light pokes out ahead. In the beam are about six million bugs of various sizes—just snatched a beetle off my neck—constant stabbing of mosquitoes and things like mimis.14 I have a choice tonight of sleeping outside on the deck or in a four-man cubicle over the engine room. I will give outside a try and retreat if I can’t stand the bites. No repellent.
There will be no English spoken for eight days and maybe more. This boat is going only halfway, to an oil village on the Magdalena River. There I will have to find another boat, without English, but armed with a letter from a company bigwig. I can’t read it, but it says I ride free. It is a deal I made—free 400-mile ride for about ten photos of boat for advertising use. All in all, it is 750 miles or so from Barranquilla to Bogotá. Only 7½ more days to go.
Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967 Page 43
