So, having said this, and feeling quite certain that the press of today has no use for “abstract generalities” of this kind, I can take another tack and assume that your challenge stems from your undeniable sense of humor; that you plan a ceremonial mangling, in your first issue, of a jabbering beatnik who had the ridiculous gall to seek employment, of all things, with a hot-shot paper like the San Juan Star.
Fortunately, your motives would make little difference to me in this case. I’d enjoy writing the piece, whether you used it or not, and will in all probability give it a fling. If I have the time, and if I can write it to my own satisfaction, I’ll send it to you sometime before October 1st. What you do with it is none of my concern. And as for my letters, I’d probably have no objection to your reprinting them if and when I write the article. At any rate, I’ll get in touch with you again sometime in the near future, either to send the article or to explain why I’m not sending it. So until then, I remain,
disagreeably,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO ELIZABETH MCKEE:
With Styron’s literary agent now his own, Thompson grew more confident that “Prince Jellyfish”—once completed—would get published by a major New York house.
September 12, 1959
2437 Ransdell Ave.
Louisville 4, Kentucky
Elizabeth McKee
30 East 60th St.
New York City 22
Dear Miss (Mrs.) McKee,
I wrote William Styron the other day, requesting the name of a decent agent, and in his letter this morning I found your name, address, and the information that you “might be very interested” in seeing the manuscript of my novel.
I certainly hope this is true. And if it is, I hope further that you might find a publisher who’d be “very interested” in getting my book between two covers, bringing it out with a great thunder of publicity drums, and generally doing everything possible to hoist me out of this bog of frightful poverty I’ve been wallowing in for the past two years.
All that would be nice, of course, but all I really need is some idea of how to get this thing on the road to publication. When I began it some eighteen months ago, crouched in some dark hole a few blocks from Sheridan Square, I had not the shadow of a doubt concerning the excellence of my finished product. Now, however, with so many months of sporadic labor behind me, I seem to have lost all hope of any objectivity concerning my own work. I say this not to flagellate my own hopes, but to qualify my judgment when I say that my book is better than Soldier’s Pay, better than This Side of Paradise, and better than The Torrents of Spring. This, to me, is a recommendation of sorts. Whether it’s valid or not remains to be seen.
I should warn you, though, that I’ve taken three chapters and an outline of the remainder to Viking Press. It was branded there as a work they “would not care to publish.” I can’t tell you why this was so, because they didn’t give me the faintest idea. And that’s precisely the reason I decided to look around for an agent. I can only presume that, if the book is unpublishable, you’ll at least tell me why.
At any rate, I should have it finished by the middle of October. If you’d like me to bring it to you then, or if you’d like to see the completed portion of it anytime before then, I hope you’ll let me know as soon as possible. I shall return to New York as soon as the book is finished, and my address until that time will be the same as it is now. If you’re at all interested, I’d like to hear from you.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO WILLIAM J. KENNEDY, SAN JUAN STAR:
While holed up in his old room polishing “Prince Jellyfish,” Thompson took time to write a one-act play for Kennedy to publish in the San Juan Star.
October 1, 1959
2437 Ransdell Ave.
Louisville 4, Kentucky
Dear Hack,
Here’s your piece, old buddy, and I’ll be the first to doff my Beat Generation Beanie if you have the guts to publish it.
It’s not exactly what you asked for, and—I hope—not what you thought you’d get. You know as well as I do that the subject can’t be handled effectively in “three or so double-spaced pages.” I thought this was the best way to do it: a brutal, low-level, sledge-hammer drama. It’s a farce, of course, but its theme is a big one, and I think the point is well made. You told me to be as disagreeable as I wanted, and I took you at your word.
You could supply the final and ridiculous irony to this whole thing by hacking my play to pieces to fit it into a capsule space. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if you did this, so let me say now that if you don’t want to run it the way it is, then send it back. And realize that, in doing so, you will confirm not only my suspicions, but my accusations as well.
If, however, you decide to use it, I would very much appreciate five copies of the edition in which it appears. Deduct for these copies when you send me the check for the play. And please do this, regardless of the cost to me.
You have my permission to use any or all of my letters. I fully expect you, as a competent journalist, to use my quotes out of context, jeer at my work, libel me in every possible way, and generally crucify me in the good name of editorial entertainment. I don’t give a damn what you do to the letters—you may re-write them, for all I care—but if you tamper with, delete from, add to, or in any way affect the wording of the play, I shall see to it that you regret your indiscretion.
Actually, your last letter surprised me a bit, and perhaps in the long run I shall owe you an apology for all this abuse. I hope so, but I think I’ll wait till I see that first issue before I put my dagger away.
Once again, don’t forget those five copies. Until I get them, or until you return the play, I remain,
Suspiciously,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
Eugene McGarr, a hard-drinking Irishman from the Bronx, had worked with Thompson as a copyboy at Time. One evening he and Thompson took their dates on a surreptitious night swim in a neighborhood pool near Sheridan Square. Before long an Italian gang ten strong came by and started a rumble. Both Thompson and McGarr were beaten bloody. Thompson swore he would never be caught “unarmed” again, and wrote this letter “for the record” in case he was ever arrested for defending himself. Thompson had just returned from Louisville to the Schoelkopfs’ basement to look for work.
October 20, 1959
Otisville,
New York
To whom it may concern:
If, at any time between the date of this letter and December 31 of this year, I am apprehended, arrested, detained, or held in New York City on charges of possessing a deadly concealed weapon, this letter will explain my action.
Some time in late August, roughly between the 20th and the 25th, I was severely beaten by a gang of hoodlums in a playground beside the pool on St. Luke’s Place. Had the police not arrived when they did, I certainly would have been seriously injured and perhaps killed.
In light of the police department’s apparent inability to protect me from another such beating, I have no choice but to protect myself by any possible means. I have chosen a hunting knife, with a blade approximately six inches long, which I intend to carry on my belt at all times in the borough of Manhattan. I will use this knife for no purpose but to defend myself from possible injury and death. And if the occasion arises, I shall use it to protect others—my companions or any other person—from the same fate.
To me, this situation is ridiculous. I do, however, have very vivid memories of my last encounter with these thugs, and I much prefer the possibility of a manslaughter trial to a slab in the morgue. Frankly, I do not feel physically safe in New York City. As a writer, however, I find it necessary to come here once in a while. This makes it imperative that I carry a weapon to protect myself.
My action is not intended to cast a slur on the efficiency of the New York Police Department. The task of policing a man-made jungle of this size borders on the impossible, and
the men who undertake it have my heartfelt sympathy. It is common knowledge that weeds cannot be killed by clipping the leaves.
Let me say in closing that this situation is not only ridiculous, but tragic. But when the law, so responsive to the wishes of the metropolitan garage owners association, cannot rise to the task of protecting the citizens of this city from beatings and senseless death, then it seems to me the citizens are justified in protecting themselves.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
FROM WILLIAM J. KENNEDY, SAN JUAN STAR:
Kennedy, along with San Juan Star publisher William Dorvillier, flatly rejected Thompson’s one-act play. Kennedy—who for years to come would offer Thompson advice on writing—advised him to stick to fiction.
October 22, 1959
San Juan,
Puerto Rico
Mr. Hunter S. Thompson
2437 Ransdell Avenue
Louisville 4, Kentucky
Friend Hunter:
I am returning your play.
You disappointed me. I expected a serious essay on a serious matter. You delivered a batch of warmed-over clichés with barnyard overtones. You raise questions, then trail off into foolishness.
It would not take any guts to publish this piece. Just gall.
The play has its moments all right. The Lincoln bit was one. The writing shows you will say things well once you discover something new that’s worth saying.
I honestly wish you well with your book. If you’re serious about that, then you’re better off staying away from journalism anyway.
I have only one piece of advice: quit writing down.
Drop by sometime. We could exchange insults over a bottle of rum.
Adios, cat
William J. Kennedy
Managing Editor
TO WILLIAM J. KENNEDY, SAN JUAN STAR:
Enraged that someone at the San Juan Star referred to his one-act play as “sophomoric drivel,” Thompson took one last swipe at the Rotarian mentality of American journalism.
October 29, 1959
Otisville,
New York
Dear Hack,
Your rotarian boob of a publisher has one of the most original minds I’ve run across in quite a while. I didn’t realize my “drama” would hit so close to home.
Whatever cretin scrawled his “criticism” on the back of my manuscript referred to it as “sophomoric drivel.” Nice phrase, eh? The man’s a real thinker.
I might point out, though, that my man Avare16 used the same phrase to describe the Lincoln quotation I used in the play. He says with all the pompous stupidity of his breed: “Oh, you thought this sophomoric drivel would interest me, eh?” Avare, to my mind, is such a caricature of a babbling ass that I hardly dared hope to ever see his twin in the flesh. But your straw boss seems to be it, and I’ll bet working for him is a real ball.
And your phrase, “a batch of warmed-over cliches with barnyard overtones,” is a pretty apt description of contemporary journalism, I’d say. Why don’t you write that “serious essay” you pine for so desperately?
But don’t expect me to send you a package of platitudes to drape over the stinking carcass of your newspaper like an American flag over a coffin full of crap. If you want to belabor your readers with Lincoln and Jesus, go right ahead. The men responsible for the “dry rot,” however, are men like your quick-witted straw boss, who sit on their pompous rumps and yell about sophomoric drivel while their hired “literary” hacks work day and night to grind out tripe by the barrel-full.
You have proved my point, friend Kennedy, and I think you know it as well as I do. To have published my play would have been a little embarrassing, I am sure, and I’d like to have seen the look on your publisher’s face when he read it. I know what I’m saying, Kennedy, and if it’s a little too brutal for you “serious” people to stomach, so much the better. Instead of my play, why don’t you publish the words to “The Star-Spangled Banner”? It’s more your style, and you won’t be tipping your hand that way, either. Platitudes are safe, because they’re easy to wink at, but truth is something else again.
If I get down that way, I’ll accept your invitation to a bit of tippling. I imagine you’re pretty decent, in your own way, and I think it’s a shame that you’ve hired yourself out as a mouthpiece for the international rotary. But I guess we all have to eat, and perhaps when I’m your age I’ll be in the same boat. I hope not but there’s always the possibility.
At any rate, thanks for your kind words about the novel, and I wish I could say the same for your newspaper. But I’m a little more honest than that, so I can only say cheers, and thanks for an interesting exchange of letters.
ETC.— HST
TO THE MUNICIPAL COURT MAGISTRATE:
Ticketed for wiping out on a motor scooter, Thompson refused to pay the fine. Instead, he fled West Milford, New Jersey—where the accident had occurred—and sent this letter of explanation of his actions.
November 6, 1959
Otisville, New York
Municipal Court Magistrate
Town Hall
West Milford, N.J.
Dear Sir,
Earlier today I was given a summons to appear before your court on November 9, on a charge of “leaving the scene of an accident.” I shall have to decline this appearance, and I hope this letter will explain why. By November 9, I shall be well out of the state of New Jersey, but I don’t want to leave without explaining my position.
The accident occurred late at night. I was driving a friend’s motor scooter, quite sober, within the speed limit, on an unfamiliar road. Suddenly, the road went over a small hill and turned sharply to the right. I touched my brakes, intending to slow down, and went into a long skid that came to an abrupt end when the scooter turned on its side and hurled me down on the asphalt. There was no damage done to anyone or anything except the scooter and my own body. No one witnessed the fall, and no one but me was involved.
For several moments I was stunned, dizzy, and in pain. Soon two men stopped in a car when they saw me lying in the road. They helped me up, saw that I was battered but not severely hurt, and both men insisted that I ride in their car to my friend’s cabin. Since I could not walk, they helped me into the car and took me to the place where I was staying.
Several minutes later the West Milford police arrived, very angry and without a warrant to enter the house. I was subsequently charged with leaving the scene of my accident, and told that I was lucky to be getting off with only one charge.
I called the Violations Clerk today and found out that the minimum fine for “leaving the scene of an accident” is $25.
So, faced with a choice of paying a minimum of $25 for falling off a motor scooter on a public road, and fleeing the state to avoid prosecution, I chose to leave the state. I am a free-lance writer and simply cannot afford to pay a fine of $25 or more at this time. And, since I obviously left the scene and am therefore guilty, I would have no choice but to go to jail in lieu of paying the fine. Then too, since I could not walk after the accident, I had to have some help in accomplishing my crime. This would make the gentlemen who stopped to help me—and who were kind enough to ride me home—accomplices in this crime.
So, we are all criminals: those of us who skid and fall on damp, unmarked roads, and those others who stop and give aid to the injured. If this situation is not patently ridiculous to you, then I can only congratulate myself on having the good sense to avoid an appearance in your court. Frankly, I cannot believe that any thinking man would find me guilty as charged. My confidence in the mentality and reasoning processes of the law, however, is virtually nil. I feel sure that nothing but trouble would come from any appearance I might make in your courtroom.
If the thinking processes of the law were demonstrated by the fact that I was so charged with this crime—when I actually couldn’t walk and had to be carried from the scene of the accident by two men—then I feel quite sure that this same strange reasoning wou
ld lead to my conviction, in some way that would probably make just as much sense as the charge itself.
If I seem pessimistic, I can only say that these are my convictions and that I cannot apologize for them.
By the time you receive this letter I will have left the state. I am purposefully not telling my friend where I am going, so that he can say in all honesty that he has no idea where I am.
In closing, let me say that I regret this situation tremendously. Ordinarily, I would come down to the courthouse and discuss it with you. Since I have no money, however, I can’t take the chance of going to jail—especially for an offense like this, which makes no sense at all, no matter how you look at it.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO ELIZABETH MCKEE:
Broke and constantly getting into trouble, Thompson couldn’t find the solitude he needed to finish “Prince Jellyfish.”
November 8, 1959
Otisville, New York
Dear Miss (Mrs.) McKee:
Sometime in September I wrote you that William Styron had said you “might be interested” in seeing my then-unfinished novel. At that time, I told you the book would be finished sometime in October.
Well … I was wrong. I have been hounded since then by a guerrilla force of investigators, creditors, and other money-grubbing elements—to the extent that I’ve been forced to keep on the move almost constantly. I wrote you from Louisville, and since then I’ve moved from there to Otisville, to New Jersey, to Manhattan, and now back to Otisville again.