The Great Gonzo

I already did my Hunter S. Thompson obit thing here on the blog, but I can't let this topic go that quickly. HST was among my favorite writers, not in terms of sheer amount of classic books, but in terms of style and outlook on life. I found his sour nihilism inspirational, his anxiety-fueled paranoid rants warmly funny.

He's one of those writers, like Phillip Roth or Dave Eggers, who can make you feel like a close personal friend. Thompson, of course, was a journalist, so theoretically all of his stories are based on fact. But it's the intimacy of the voice, not the recollection of details, that makes it more like hearing from a friend who's been on a long trip, rather than reading the observations of a stranger.

But enough of my railing on about his genius. Salon has a great collection of memories from people who actually did know Thompson first-hand, like Sonny Barger of the Hell's Angels.

But as time went by, Hunter turned out to be a real weenie and a stone fucking coward. You read about he walks around his house now with pistols, shooting them out of his windows to impress writers who show up to interview him. He’s all show and no go. When he tried to act tough with us, no matter what happened, Hunter Thompson got scared. I ended up not liking him at all, a tall skinny, typical hillbilly from Kentucky. He was a total fake.

Hmm...well, then. I guess that's what you'd expect from a Hell's Angel. Their entire reputation's based around not liking people.

This quote from Thompson's colleague, journalist Robert Sam Anson, seems to get at his particular brand of madness quite well:

[Thompson] drains his glass in a gulp and orders another drink. And then another. Buy the end of the evening, he will have had many drinks, and will still be sober. It is his special curse: to be able to fill his body with alcohol and drugs, and always have it function; never to be able to blot out what he has seen, what he knows.

Also, you should check out this item from the New York Post, in which Thompson's friend Warren Hinckle recalls his final moments.

"He's [Thompson] talking about a funeral, great funeral. Typical Hunter ranting, nothing out of the ordinary about that," Hinckle told The Post. "And then he walked into the next room . . . and pow."

Asked if Thompson — whose drug and booze consumption was as prodigious as his prose — was intoxicated at the time, Hinckle said he did not know, but added, "If he were, it would be nothing unusual. He was intoxicated all the time."

The article comes to the conclusion that Thompson killed himself rather than live any longer in physical pain, including spinal and hip problems. Seems reasonable enough to me.