More of our talk is filtering back, now. I recall a mention of The Fun House.4
I think you wanted a review. Excellent. We will give him a fang job, so as to keep sharp for Señor Nixon. They are not as different as they seem at a glance.
That gives me three things to work on for you, plus a handful of others for the Observer. With luck, I will get half of them done. I am doing for the Observer here, by the way, a newsy piece on hearings concerning a Wilderness Bill, so I’ll bill them for the two days or so of my expenses. Maybe I told you that. If not, it’s true & I want it made part of the record. Even so, I will need more money before I leave here.
You can count on “a story” out of Denver, but I can’t say when until I know more of what the Gov means to do with his crisis. Maybe I’ll know more by the time I call—probably Tuesday afternoon. At any rate, I’ll get enough while I’m here so I can round up the rest by phone.
That about wraps it up for now. See you in the nearest reasonable future.
Hunter S. Thompson
TO DWIGHT MARTIN, THE REPORTER:
January 28, 1964
Woody Creek
Dwight—
I think it is outrageous that a cheap thing like a publication date could influence your decision to review a book. The Fun House is a timeless social document, pertinent to all ages. I urge you to Think Big and reconsider this small-minded error. A book shot through with such galloping insight is in fact a beacon for young and old alike, and should be dealt with as such.
As for my Denver piece I would like to seize this opportunity to say I have never read a more brilliant prospectus. If this hair-brained Thompson fellow could actually write the three articles he flirts with in those 17 pages he would be a goddamn champion. As it is, I believe the article gives you a fine opportunity to find out how many of your readers are on their toes. Also keep in mind that we live in the age of the Package Deal.
I am working at this time on a short piece called “Aspen, or Deviations on a Theme.” It will not be a blockbuster, but it might be coherent. I am trying to scale down my themes. Your publication schedule is too brutal. It is bad enough to have to deal with the Myth of the West at any time, but to have to do it with one eye on two days’ notice is more than a white man should have to bear. I was all set with a nice little bear-trap for the Governor, a week of private eye work amid the vagaries of the Colorado budget—but maybe it’s just as well this way, because in a pure money-politics piece I would never have been able to use those two lead paragraphs, which, if published, will surely become immortal.
My eye is coming around, which is a good thing because it is crucial that I recognize the game warden’s jeep at a great distance.5 You know, of course, that the biggest single question of our time concerns the validity of “The Profit Motive.” I am not, however, prepared to do that one at this time. Put your Africa man on it, because it is over there where the European expatriates (Frantz Fanon and Co.) are gathering for the Great Wake. Maybe a good lead would be this: The theories behind the new governments in Africa today are not African at all, but European. Maybe that will make the white people feel better. A focus on the Institute for African Studies in Legon (Accra), Ghana. That is the theoretical headwaters for everything that is going on in Africa. I believe there is a lot to be had over there, although—and I repeat—I am not up to it at this time with my wife about to drop a child in my lap at any moment.
Ate logo—HST
TO LIONEL OLAY:
Thompson critiqued Lionel Olay’s most recent contribution to Cavalier—an article about the influence of Asian culture on the U.S. West—and shared shoptalk with a fellow free-lancer.
January 29, 1964
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Lionel:
You are enough of a pro so I shouldn’t have to say that your most recent piece was well done; that should be taken for granted. But what was it? I submit this: A Zen, Hip, Loverly, Maileresque Cop-Out. Pretty shitty and mean, eh? Especially since you said nice things about my Louisville piece. But they were far from the same. Mine was good journalism, nothing more. Yours is a significant contribution to the literature of phony revelation. Mailer, having failed to write what he always wanted to, has become the undisputed champ in that field. It is like a frustrated animal, biting on his tail. I had a coati in Brazil that drew blood on himself whenever he couldn’t deal with reality.6 But shit, Scott Fitzgerald came a lot closer to putting his soul on paper than either you or Mailer have ever dreamed of doing, mescaline or no. But Scott was embarrassed about it, and other people had to find him out, while the Mailer ethic is to make it very plain beforehand that he is “about to spill his guts”—which might be interesting if he ever really did it, but he always holds back. Now it has become his technique; it is sort of like bargaining with a Mexican street-merchant—you pull out all the money you have, except for the book of traveler’s checks, and make a Final Offer for whatever it is you want. Hell, show it to him—coins, bills, the whole wad, and let him know he’s pushed you as far as you can go—except for the traveler’s checks.
At one point—“in the full flush of the experience”—you say you “feel holy.… What I mean is I feel as if I’m radiating glowing, and that it is in my power to bless things, which I have an urge to do. It’s late at night, and what I’d like to do is stop for a while and search out some human companionship.…”
Hell, I feel that way every time I get drunk. Last week in Denver with The Reporter paying my expenses I spent all night on the long-distance telephone, blessing people and stabbing at human contact. Mostly women, so don’t feel offended that you were left out; if I’d called you I probably would have wanted to talk to Beverly. The point is not that I’m exceptional for doing a thing like that, but that it’s a damn common feeling and if that’s all mescaline can do for me, I’ll stick with Old Crow.
I won’t begrudge you your feelings, and I can’t really argue with them, for that matter, but let’s call a spade a spade. It was really an apologia, and the real tip-off came when you said, “All we have to worry about is the nervous ones who have to prove something that can never be proved and are prepared to goof the whole shot just to make their noise.” Well I hope I still have enough balls to qualify under that definition, and, given reasonable odds I’d bet you feel the same way. Granted, I don’t know you real well, but I’m pretty good at catching true scents and I honestly don’t think you believe what you wrote. Why don’t you take whatever pill it is that really opens a man up? Given a real truth serum, I think you could probably stand people’s hair on end. In the meantime—or until you can swallow the real dingdong—my best advice would be to forgo Mailer’s technique. He is now so bad I can’t even read him, and I used to think he was the secret weapon. I knocked him, but only because I hoped it would prod him to focus down on the real business—but now he’s just dull and fat, and for my money that Esquire novel is his swan-song.7 I read a few paragraphs, then turned to Dwight McDonald, who is at least entertaining. Your Cavalier piece, for that matter, was better than any of Mailer’s current stuff, but you seem to be gripped with the idea of competing with the fat bastard, and it just ain’t worth it. Let him go; he’s getting upwards of $25,000 a year to work out his death-dance, although I think if I had a talent like he had (had) I would ask twice as much when I decided to put it on the block.
All of which is a little presumptuous of me, I grant, but I have started thinking tough again and I may even get back to doing something worthwhile sometime soon. The California move has been postponed a week or so, due to overwhelming poverty. I haven’t paid my January rent or my December bill at the Woody Creek store, and I can’t leave until I do. The Reporter has another piece which could pay the tab, but they’re in no hurry to pay and I can’t move until they do. I have turned into a fuck-off as far as this journalism is concerned—one of these woodsy types who talks a good article but never writes it. I only write when finances pressure me into it, and not a hell of a lot t
hen. I agree with you that it’s a shitty life—which is really what you said—but I don’t agree with your remedies. Age 40 is a bit too early to seek out the rocking chair and start trying to pull the wool over your own eyes. Let’s face it—it’s the tension of life that keeps the light in a man’s eyes, and keeps the foam in his nuts. It’s really the only thing you can’t afford to lose.
Probably this all sounds a bit incoherent to your jaded ears, and even to mine at this hour of the night. Old Crow has a hand in here; we just had the ranch-neighbor and his wife down for dinner. I think it should be talked out in one of those big hot tubs at Hot Springs. Disregard my date of February 8—10 and wait for a cable saying exactly when the move will begin. I’ll send it to your current address and will expect your presence at the appointed time. Bring a rifle along and we’ll pop a pig or two. I have every reason to believe you need a rest.
HST
TO PAUL SEMONIN:
January 31, 1964
Woody Creek
Dear Bobo—
I have dug into Frantz Fanon and I think he is a dead ringer for the real thing. If that’s what you were trying to say all summer, I suggest you take some lessons in elementary English expression. If I were Fanon, I wouldn’t want you on my side. Your relationship to him seems very much like your own concept of the American “liberal.” I don’t think Fanon needs Sartre either; I guess it’s nice to have a little left-wing respectability on your side now and then, but Sartre is an eloquent windbag and I’d rather take my business straight. I am only about a third of the way into it but I already have a strong scent. I’ll call him a liar and a fool now and then, but there’s no denying that mean, high sound of a two-legged boarbuster.
Between Fanon and Bob Dylan I think the blood is moving in my brain again. Dylan is a goddamn phenomenon, pure gold, and mean as a snake. If you get U.S. records over there, listen to his “Masters of War” sometime. I just got the record on credit from Peggy Clifford.
My credit is strained to the limit and today was my last legal one in this house. From now on, I am a squatter. I owe $550 that has to be paid before I leave. The Reporter may or may not send funds; I am sweating it out. If they don’t, I am up to my balls in scalding crisis. The Observer is down on me for a fang-job I did on Congress; they bounced it savagely, so I sent it to The Rptr. Now I am doing one on the pending Aspen Mtn. strike.8 D.R.C. Brown is holding the line, along with Paul Nitze and the other fatbellies—but the patrol people seem ready to hit the streets.9 Union songs are now heard in the Dipsy-Doodle and elsewhere. “The Talkin’ Union.” With a little humor and local color, I can probably pass it off on the Observer.
I stick by my original comment on Aspen; living here has stunted my wit. Elk meat is fixing my bowels. The move looms at any time, but not until money comes. The tension is ugly. Sandy is in the eighth month. The old story. If I don’t lose the scent I may do something worthwhile sometime soon. Prospects for the spring include a run out to Hawaii to fetch Hudson’s boat. He’d probably like to have you along if you don’t bring Sartre. Fanon would be OK; unless you think his ass might burn a hole in the deck. Returning to this country has crippled my spirit; it is easier to be an American abroad. The past dies hard, and not always for good reason. The mood of the country reminds me of that headline in the New Leader when Bosch was run out of Santo Domingo—“The Return of the Syndicate.”10 My position at this time is “deal around me.” Send word.
HST
TO DWIGHT MARTIN, THE REPORTER:
February 1, 1964
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Mr. Martin:
In the course of my African outburst the other night (January 26, letter of) I referred to Frantz Fanon as part of the group of European expatriates gathered in Africa to form the revolution, or what Sartre called “The Third World.” Fanon is very much a part of that group, but he is not European. The best information I can get in Woody Creek is that he is a West Indian, and presumably black.11
The reason I mention it is that I am now dealing with his book, The Damned, only recently published in English in 1963. The original edition was published in 1961 and titled The Damned of the Earth, or, more accurately, Les Damnes de la Terre. I think the new English edition would be a good thing to review.
The introduction, by Jean-Paul Sartre, has become required reading for those who wonder about the future of Africa. Its thesis—which is also the thesis of Fanon’s text—runs like this: There can be no compromise with the black (or brown or yellow) people of this earth except on their terms. What the white man fails to understand is that the native is not just revolting against a handful of arrogant settlers, but against the entire system of values those settlers represent. Hence, there is no sense talking to excolonial peoples in terms of Western Values (specifically, the doctrine of Humanism) that have never really taken hold.
Anyway, I trust you see what I’m getting at. If the Sartre-Fanon thesis proves out, it will be at the expense of our efforts to cultivate democratic political systems in the “emerging nations.” That, of course, would be the first thing to go out the window. Witness Ghana today. The thesis also calls into question our ideas of The Democratic Left forming pro-Western caretaker governments to bring the natives around. According to Sartre and Fanon, these people are regarded as ideological lackeys and could not possibly succeed.
We are both aware of Sartre’s political coloration, and Fanon is, if anything, more dogmatic. But the thesis is real, and it doesn’t exist in a vacuum. For nearly a year I have maintained a running debt with some contacts at the Institute for African Studies in Ghana (mainly Europeans, but one American) and I have come from a point where I dismissed them all as “book-store Marxists” to another point, now, where I take their ideas quite seriously. I don’t like them, but too much of what they say makes sense when I read the newspapers.
Well, this is too long a letter for a simple thing like a book review query. The nut of it is that I think the Fanon book is worth doing and I think I could do a good job on it. When is another matter. Right now I am half mad with tension; every morning I go to the P.O. to seek notice of incoming funds—and every afternoon I watch the road for signs of my landlord. If you are going to use that Denver piece, I urge you to send a money-message at once so I can shift into fleeing gear. My lease ran out yesterday; I am now a squatter. The oil for my furnace is running out and I can’t afford more. My subscription to the Denver Post is running out, and, rotten paper that it is, I’d hate to lose my last contact with the outside world. And my wife grows fatter by the hour; I think it will be a Mongolian idiot. The fat is in the fire. HST
TO DWIGHT MARTIN, THE REPORTER:
With Sandy eight months pregnant, Thompson rented a U-Haul trailer and they drove twelve hundred miles across “rotten snow” to Glen Ellen, California, fifty miles north of San Francisco. His plan was to earn money by writing articles on the American West for the National Observer and The Reporter.
February 21, 1964
Owl House
9400 Bennett Valley Rd.
Glen Ellen, California
Dear Mr. Martin:
Greetings from the New World, the Brazil of America, the land of cheap wine and the 10-cent cantaloupe. I arrived, pulling my trailer, and was denied entrance to the house I was planning to live in. The fellow had changed his mind. Changed his mind. So I now live in a sort of Okie shack, paying a savage rent, and spend most of my day in a deep ugly funk, plotting vengeance. Vengeance.
At any rate, I have built a desk out of an old door, and am now ready. My first act, after admitting the loss of my Denver hotel receipt, was to make out a foggy justification for that $200 you sent. Let me know if this isn’t sufficient, and I’ll do something more. $35 a day ain’t hard to justify.
Enclosed are two poems. The poet runs a private graveyard a few miles from here and stopped by the other day when he heard I kept pistols. I wiped him out, mainly because he was unnerved by the awful roar of my .44 Magnum. It was like
William Tell going against a bazooka. “Yeah,” I said, “I have a gun or two.” And I unveiled this frightening thing that will shoot through a motor block, and opened up a tree with it. He carried a .22, which he fanned like Billy the Kid. But we patched it up and then he produced his poetry, which I told him I’d send along to Madison Avenue, where they need poetry. I sort of like the stuff, especially from a grave-keeper, and thought I’d give you a look at it. Rest assured I made no commitments. But it may grab you. If not, send it back. The guy can afford rejections; he has a job.
What in the hell is happening with the Denver piece? I am beginning to think you bought me off, and will have none of it. To make things worse, I can’t find my carbon. Life has become a goat dance. Something will have to be done with that piece, however. If necessary, I will go back to Denver, much as I hate the idea. At any rate, let’s have some communication on it. I will get a phone as soon as I can afford the $50 deposit. In the meantime, call me c/o Lou Ambler, Glen Ellen. That’s next door to the shack. Address is the above.
On Monday I mean to contact Gene Burdick12 about a “fish-in” scheduled in Washington on March 3. Burdick, [Marlon] Brando, J[ames] Baldwin and P[aul] Newman. Something to do with Indians being denied fishing rights on the Columbia River. Christ knows what it means. I guess it is a natural news story for the Observer, and maybe a possible commentary for you. But I can’t say for sure till afterwards.
The Red chink13 was elected to Congress yesterday, and should give me a good peg for the San Francisco story. Or profile, as it were. I have never quite understood what you mean by that term. Seems to me like a book-length subject, even in Woody Creek. But maybe not. Was the Louisville piece a “political profile”?
I could tell you a lot of other things I am working on, but it would be a bag of lies. The fact is that I am spending all my energies on living from day to day without the credit I enjoyed in Woody Creek. On Monday I will take my antique Luger to a San Francisco pawnshop. Once I establish credit, I may be able to function. A man needs credit. Especially when he has no money.
Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967 Page 56
