Why don’t you call from Kansas City and we can see how a quick visit might work? I expect to be travelling in late Oct and early Nov, but right now I don’t know the dates. Do you know if there is a National Rifle Assoc. gun club in your area? If so, I might find an excuse to visit in connection with an article I’m doing. Let me know and hello to Adeliade (sp?). Jesus … Addie? I think I’ll go to bed.
Ciao …
H
TO JANE FLINT:
Although Thompson has always acknowledged that he lent Tom Wolfe some of the audiotapes he had made of the Hell’s Angels debauching themselves at Ken Kesey’s ranch in La Honda, California—at Wolfe’s request, and with the understanding that he would use the material in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test—some fans assumed that Wolfe had lifted sections from Hell’s Angels.
October 18, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Jane Flint …
Thanks for your very detailed evidence inre: Tom Wolfe’s “plagiarism” of my La Honda gang bang. I appreciate the instinct that caused you to write me, but I’m not sure what to tell you about the attribution problem. Your weird guess that “… maybe you and Wolfe witnessed the same thing at the same time and not the same reaction” borders on the Obscene and even the Half-Mad. The inference that Kesey staged gang-rapes for journalistic tours—and that Wolfe and I happened to be on the same Gray Line Tour—makes me wonder what sort of crippled reality-show I’m contributing to by writing “journalism.” Yours is not the first letter to rumble on this theme, and barring the weird chance of a merciful god it won’t be the last. The weird truth that few editors and writers can even imagine is that the “literate public” is far stranger and freakier than the very square world of editors and journalists … all of which makes journalism a sort of echo, rather than the Force it seems to be in the context of Time and Newsweek.
None of which has much to do with Wolfe’s swinish plagiarism, which I’m sure was accidental. … What he did there, I think, was beef up his narrative with an unpublished revise of my book, meaning to rewrite it for style and tone, but never quite getting around to it. We all do that, I’m afraid, and one of these days—when Wolfe writes something true enough to be worth stealing—I’ll feel free to use it more or less as I see fit, and I hope you’ll write and nail me when I do it. I’m genuinely amazed to find that anyone reads new books that carefully. I’m neither annoyed nor bored by your observations, and only half-amused.
In any case, I sent Wolfe some tapes relating to that part of my Hell’s Angels research, and since my account of the gang bang was taken almost directly from my taped account, I’m not surprised that Wolfe’s account is very much the same—since it came off the same tape. The only difference, of course, is that I was there and Tom wasn’t. Which is only half-important, in terms of true journalism. All journalists improvise on the skeletal truths they drag up—the trick is to do it right and truthfully. Wolfe improvises straighter than most, and besides that he gave me a credit in that part of his narrative that deals with the Angels. This is a standard brand of decency, I think, in the world I have to make a living in … which reminds me, for no particular reason, that we all get a little older and less honest every time the sun comes up, which it’s about to do here…so I’ll hang up.
Again, thanks for the letter and the heavy style-eye. I’m forwarding your letter to Tom, for good or ill … (yeah, I had to pause, there, to turn some John Fahey98 records over …). Music is the better part of journalism these days, anyway.
Ciao …
Hunter Thompson
TO HUGHES RUDD, CBS NEWS:
With Election Day just two and a half weeks off, Thompson was genuinely concerned about his nation’s future.
October 18, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Hughes …
I meant to send you my report on “The Press in Chicago—A Study in Degeneracy,” but I haven’t been able to make a copy. Maybe tomorrow. I’m alarmed at the trend to fearful breast-beating, this nervous deference to freaks of every stripe who write letters to the editor/producer, insisting that all reporters are liars. I got a radio newscast tonight in the car, a report from city hall in NY, where a mob of some 40,000 had gathered to condemn [Mayor John] Lindsay and the President. The newscast (CBS Radio) talked at length about the “fuck the press” atmosphere, but he seemed apologetic about even being alive. If you bastards keep backing up and apologizing to fascist mobs, we’re all going to be in a terrible hole. You should send one of your heavies into a mob and have him grab one of these fascist freaks and let him give his own play-by-play of what’s going on. That would cure the buggers. [Onetime Democratic front-runner Senator Edmund] Muskie did a variation on that act, and it worked pretty well. Let these pile-driver punks make fools of themselves once or twice, and the others will back off. They’re gutless pigs—all mobs are swine; right, left or center. But this “fuck the press” thing is snowballing and the only way to cope with it is to meet it head on. [Edward R.] Murrow did it for everybody last time around, but why create that sort of desperate vacuum again? I wandered into the kitchen the other morning, with a head full of LSD for the first time in a year, to find my son watching [Martin] Agronsky and Rowland Evans goading Agnew on the tube. Jesus, what a horror. They should have destroyed the bastard, instead of just playing with him. Maybe they went to cocktail parties later that day and told how they’d really worked him over … but west of the Hudson it didn’t come off. I dug it, but then I’m a special case out here; as for my neighbors, I’m sure they felt that Agnew had survived an attack by pinko wolves. (Which reminds me that, 2 days later, on Tuesday night, my neighbors got jerked around very severely by the CBS Playhouse—the drug scene. I think it was called “The People Next Door.” By Wednesday morning the Wallace vote had doubled out here. Jesus, what a bummer that was.)
And so much for all that. My reason for writing was to say that my RH book has become such a weird bugger that you don’t have to worry about any conflicts. I’ve decided to write the first Fictional Documentary Novel. To wit: “Hey Rube! The Memoirs of Raoul Duke … or a report on the rape and looting of the American Dream by a gang of Vicious Swine.” My friend, Raoul, has agreed to provide details of his secret life. And I’ll provide the journalism. Together, we have the artillery to smote the bastards hip and thigh. Smote? Smite? What the hell? It’s a mean gig, no matter how you word it. Which reminds me that I expect to be in L.A. for election day; I want to observe some polling places in Hollywood and Watts—more book research. How can I find [CBS’s] Bill Stout? I’d like to mortalize him in print—or maybe just follow him around for part of election day and find out if he’s a liar or not. Actually, what I want to do is use “Election Day in Hollywood and Watts” as a peg for a general comment on Southern California and the coccyx of the American dream. I’ve decided to use this election and its scenes—Chicago, L.A. on election day, the Inauguration, etc., as the loose framework for a book on how it was the year the lights went out. With ten years of quasi-biographical notes, courtesy of Raoul Duke. I mention Stout in L.A. because I think he’ll be covering the same general scenes that I’ll want to look at … and I’m also planning to bear down heavily on the role of the press. I wouldn’t want to bug him, but if you think he wouldn’t mind a shadow from noon to midnight on election day, let me know and tell me how I can locate him.
On other fronts, I’ll be in Washington sometime soon, doing an article on the National Rifle Assoc. I don’t know whether I can get to it before election day, or after. Hopefully, before. In which case I plan to get up to NY for some talk with RH and agent, lawyer, dealers, etc. If you’ll be around, we can have a drink. I’ll send word when I know the dates.
Ciao …
Hunter
**the enclosed button is a present for Ann; I got it in the mail today, from Ramparts, and rather than give it any thought, I figured I’d pass it along for somebody else to wear—it has a vaguely un-settling quality & might be fun to
wear, but not for me. I hate buttons, stickers, labels, the whole bag.
TO VIRGINIA THOMPSON:
Thompson updated his mother on family life in Woody Creek.
October 21, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Mom—
I have just—less than an hour ago—moved into a new dwelling. I am now the proprietor of a vast ranch, currently listed on the Aspen real estate market at $250,000. My rent is $50 a month, with the situation apparently firm until summer. It is a feudal situation. I have a working stable (with 6 horses), a separate building for my studio, various corrals, jumps & a professional riding ring—a three-level main house with a piano & a big freezer—two fireplaces—two baths—a washer & dryer—and all manner of benefits I haven’t discovered yet. It’s situated more or less like the other Woody Creek house, but the other one was an Okie shack compared to my current estate. This is really an incredible thing—the lucky result of being in the right place at the right time and having some good friends in Aspen.
I think the thing to do now is have you and Jim come out for Christmas. If you balance the cost of a round-trip ticket (plane or train) against what you’d normally spend on a Christmas at home, the trip won’t seem too expensive. I’d offer to pay for the fares, but until some new windfall comes in, I’m dead broke. The $1000 Esquire paid for the segment they’ll run in the January issue was advanced to me a long time ago—in loans of $100 each—by my agent. Whatever was left went for car repairs, moving expenses and all the expensive details of getting settled in here. The Esquire sale postponed publication until mid-January. I hate the delay, but having part of the book in Esquire will be a great help to sales. More than ever, I think this book might make money. Which reminds me, of course, that I owe you that $100—and much more. If you get in a tight spot I can borrow the $100 & pay you back when you need it. But if you can wait until publication I think I’ll be in much better shape. Either way, let me know. I owe Leah $100, too—and more than that from the past, so I have to balance these things. I also owe Geiger & Clancy,99 but they’re used to me by now.
Anyway, let me know about Christmas. I’ll give this letter time to get there, then I’ll call. About Nov 1. When I talked to Davison I said I’d be there for Christmas (Lou.), but this ranch was too rare a thing to pass up. Staying here will foul me up in a lot of ways—including my plans with Random House—but I can’t pass up this chance to live like a human being for a while. After the Hell’s Angels, I think I deserve Woody Creek. For the moment, we’re all very happy—Sandy is ecstatic. Juan has 105° temp & Darwin just went through a siege of porcupine quills—in his nose, mouth, eye & throat—many visits to the vet, large bills, etc.—but tonight we’re all fine. I am way behind on the work, but now with a headquarters & no immediate money pressures I think the writing will move fast again. The Rum Diary was due Aug 1, so I have to rush.
That’s it for now. This is the longest letter I’ve written in two months—& the first in about three weeks. Things have been very hectic here, but I foresee a calm period. Write.
Love
H
tell Jim I can see elk—not deer—from my back door. Deer are everywhere, & I can see coyotes outside right now.
TO TOM WOLFE:
Fretful that he may in fact have inadvertently used passages taken too directly from Hell’s Angels in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Wolfe had written Thompson to apologize.
October 26, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Dude …
You don’t owe me any apologies, or even explanations. Not even footnotes. Keep in mind to whom ye speake—a natural word-thief in every way. The weird thing about that gang-bang scene, though, is that we both stole it from my tape—which makes me think I should have been a pro football commentator instead of a writer. Maybe I’m wrong, but I think the instant/verbal notes were better and more real than either one of our interpretations. We’re both thieves, stealing from Reality—which is like Faulkner’s notion of land-ownership (see The Bear). Only a mean fool or a twisted ego-freak would try to claim ownership of a scene just because he saw it. Like I said—I’ll steal from you when you write a scene I know I can’t make any other way.*
So to hell with your deep bows. That was a hell of a good book, and The Pump House Gang, which I’m reading now, hits peaks that are even better. Not many, but the good things are better than the best Acid Test stuff. So I tend to admire the other book a little more. I don’t know about you, but in my own mind I value peaks far more than continuity or sustained effort. Those are for caretakers on the killing-floor. Mr. Fitzgerald spoke in terms of “the high white note,” which explains it pretty well—at least as far as I’m concerned. That, in fact, is the theme of the book that Random House is finally forcing me to write. It’s due in July & I’m doing my practice runs now, 5 and 10 pages at a time—getting limber.
In the meantime, however, I’ll be in NY a/o Dec 5—a Thursday, as I recall—and probably for that weekend. Will you be around? I think it’s about time we did a mano-a-mano thing—like having a human drink together. I’ll be in Washington from Dec 2 until 5—reachable at the Washington Hotel, I think, or if that fails via Jim Ridgeway, 2920 28th St. NW, Wash. DC.
My king-hell desire, at this point, is to hear one of your lectures on the New Journalism. I really want to know what it is. If all other connections fail, you’re invited to lunch with me and Jim Silberman from Random House on Dec 6—call him and say you’re coming, at my insistence. See you then, or….
Hunter
*—with footnotes
TO GEORGE KIMBALL:
Journalist George Kimball—who would run, unsuccessfully, for sheriff of Lawrence, Kansas, in 1970—had sent Thompson a galley of his grotesque and depraved new sex novel, which Thompson found so obscenely violent he was appalled to have been asked for a dust-jacket blurb.
November 17, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
George Kimball
c/o Maurice Girodias
Olympia Press Inc.
36 Gramercy Park
New York City 10003
Dear George …
Strange twists in this strange and evil world: I just moved my writing hole downstairs to a timeless, lightless dungeon in the basement … and in the process of moving I found a letter of yours dated a hell of a long time ago that I’d put in my “answer now” slot … but that whole file got lost in the chaos of that stinking little cubicle and—if I hadn’t moved—yes, had I not changed desks, as it were, your letter would have withered away, and me under the impression that I’d answered it most cordially and informatively and why can’t that fucking Kimball deal with his mail?
Anyway, this book of yours is the foulest, most rotten thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. It goes so far beyond pornography as to approach a new form of some kind … you may be the founder of the Carnal/Axehandle School. Your setting and characters are weirdly similar to the situation in Aspen.
Jesus, I’m too tired and fucked up to carry on here. But I’ll be in NY the weekend of Dec 6; maybe we can get together and do about 40 amyls for lunch in the Americana. Call Jim Silberman at Random House and leave word as to how you can be reached.
Ciao,
Hunter Thompson
TO MAURICE GIRODIAS, OLYMPIA PRESS:
Hardly a prude when it comes to erotic literature and good pornography, flat broke as he was Thompson refused Olympia Press’s offer of $500 to endorse George Kimball’s violent sex book.
November 17, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Maurice …
I was shocked, at first, to think you’d address me on a first-name basis, and especially in the context of a rude solicitation for an endorsement of that hideous drug-nightmare by George Kimball. On the other hand, I was favorably impressed by your offer of $500 for a ten-word plug … people have said you were generous, but I didn’t believe them until I got your fine and friendly letter.
Unfortunately, I can’t unde
r any circumstances endorse that heap of deranged offal that Kimball has coughed up in the shameful guise of art. I’m sure you’re aware of Mr. Kimball’s background: he has dealt, as it were, with Agents. These people, as you know, are the Enemies of Art. Kimball suffers from more strange diseases than any three people you know; Angina Pectoris is probably the worst and most offensive of these. I doubt very seriously if he wrote that stinking book by himself; it strikes me as the work of a pre-teen visionary of some kind. Frankly I hate the personal connotations in this work; I was there in Chicago, and it wasn’t like this at all. You may have seen me on TV: I was in the press gallery with my day-shift people from the Studebaker plant in Gary.
In any case, I’m coming to NY in December to beat the living shit out of Kimball. Only Skin Deep is a vicious and intolerable mockery of the whole filth industry; it reminds me of a photograph I recently bought for $50 in the Denver airport … it showed a local high-school cheerleader sucking on a garden hose while roaches crawled out of her anus. I think you and Kimball and Daley have gone too far this time: pornography is one thing, but raw obscenity is quite another. Somebody is going to have to answer for this book; if I were you, I’d get the hell out of town.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO RALPH GINZBURG, FACT:
A former staffer at Esquire and then Eros, Thompson’s friend Ralph Ginzburg was now an editor at New York’s Fact magazine.