Proud Highway
Page 42
As for your plan to return to this rotten town, I cannot do much smiling. I don’t doubt there’s money here, but you will dig in shit to find it. I have never seen a place so jammed with absolute pricks. Perhaps Chicago is worse, but I doubt it. Of course there’s LA, but that’s too much for an honest man to face or even question. My only faith in this country is rooted in such places as Colorado and Idaho and maybe Big Sur as it was before the war. The cities are greasepits and not worth blowing off the map. I can’t understand why you want to come here except to swoop in and grab what you can and be off again. There is no other way to deal with this place. Beware. On this, if on nothing else, I think I speak truth. And on top of everything else I think it would drive Beverly7 nuts. It is already cracking Sandy, and she grew up on Long Island.
Well, that’s about the story from this end. I am drunk now and it’s just about 5 am. 14 pages tonight, not a bad pitch. I have another bad week of major re-writing, then I can coast. God damn, it will be good to have it off my hands, regardless of where it goes or why. I don’t care anymore. I just want to finish. And now I’m running out of space and I don’t feel up to another sheet, so—send word. HST
TO JAMES ZANUTTO, FEATURES EDITOR, POP PHOTO:
Thompson made a pitch to Pop Photo for an article on the virtues of American photography.
February 26, 1962
531 E. 81 Street
New York City
James Zanutto
Features Ed.
Pop Photo
One Park Ave., New York
Dear Mr. Zanutto:
After reading Hattersley’s “Good & Bad Pictures”8 in your most recent issue, I mentioned what I thought was an article possibility to Bob Bone9 and he suggested I see what you thought of it.
Its title might be something like “The Case for the Chronic Snapshooter.” This derives from Hattersley’s statement that snapshooting is not, by definition, a low and ignorant art. He cites Weegee and Cartier-Bresson as examples.
I enjoyed seeing this in print. Because after being in New York for a while, reading Pop Photo and mingling here and there with photographers, I was beginning to feel that no man should ever punch a shutter release without many years of instruction and at least $500 worth of the finest equipment. As a free-lance writer, I’ve been taking pictures for several years, often just for the hell of it, and often to illustrate my articles. I’ve had a good time at it, and sold enough pictures to cover my lab expenses and the initial cost of my equipment several times over. My “equipment” consists of a Yashica-Mat, a cheap light meter, and a yellow filter.
When I got to New York, however, I was given to understand that I might just as well be shooting with a Brownie Hawkeye. My only salvation lay in a Hasselblad, a Nikon and quick enrollment in a photographers’ school. I pondered this for a while and soon found myself running in circles, going from one camera store to the next, promising them all that I’d come back the next day and buy a complete outfit. Meanwhile, I zipped my camera into a suitcase and stopped taking pictures altogether. They were bound to be terrible, and besides that, I was embarrassed to be seen on the street with my ratty equipment.
Then I read Hattersley’s piece. After that I got out some of my prints and decided that not all of them were worthless. As a matter of fact there were some that gave me pleasure. And I had sold a good many, I’d enjoyed taking them, and some had even given other people pleasure.
That’s my idea in a nutshell. When photography gets so technical as to intimidate people, the element of simple enjoyment is bound to suffer. Any man who can see what he wants to get on film will usually find some way to get it; and a man who thinks his equipment is going to see for him is not going to get much of anything.
The moral here is that anyone who wants to take pictures can afford adequate equipment and can, with very little effort, learn how to use it. Then, when the pictures he gets start resembling the ones he saw in his mind’s eye, he can start thinking in terms of those added improvements that he may or may not need.
For instance: there are damn few things you can’t shoot at a 500th of a second, so why get an inferiority complex if your camera doesn’t go up to 1000th? Anybody who can afford that extra nickel for Tri-X can shoot indoors at night with any camera that has a 3.5 lens and shutter speed down to 50 or 25. Why give up because you can’t afford a camera with a 1.8 or 1.4 lens? First push 3.5 to its absolute limit, and if it still bugs you, you’ll find some way to buy that other camera. If not, you don’t need it anyway.
I’m enclosing some prints to demonstrate my thesis. There is something technically wrong with every one of them, but I have sold enough of these and others to make my snapshooting habit pay its own way. Some of these were taken at a time when I didn’t even know that some films were faster than others. Then, when I discovered Tri-X, I moved indoors and, with little tricks like tilting lampshades, etc., I have usually managed to get pretty close to what I wanted. And I have never found a situation that caused me to slink off in shame because I couldn’t shoot a 1000th.
It may be that my thesis will rub some of your high-priced advertisers the wrong way, but I doubt it. After all, the best way to appreciate fine equipment is to shoot with some that isn’t so fine, and then move up. But no man will learn an inferiority complex quicker than he who starts out with a Leica and consistently gets poorer stuff than his buddy with an Olympus Pen. And the man who starts out with an inexpensive but adequate camera will soon learn its limitations, and he’ll appreciate his Leica when he gets it.
That’s about it. This letter is a rough sketch of the proposed article, so you should have a good idea what I’m driving at. If it doesn’t interest you, give the prints to Bone instead of mailing them back to me. My mailman has a bad habit of jamming photos into my mailbox and I’d rather not have that happen to these.
Cordially,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO EUGENE W. MCGARR:
Struggling with debt, piles, and “The Rum Diary,” Thompson took a break to needle McGarr, who was trying to write a novel in Spain.
February 28, 1962
531 E. 81 Street
New York City
Dear zero-grinning …
There are no brochures on the Mato Grosso, McGarr, which is one of the reasons land is selling there for $4 an acre. I have no idea what it’s like except that it’s god-forsaken and full of jaguars. Also wild boar and mahogany. A friend of mine here has bought 50 acres for $200, but has never seen it. Beyond this, you will have to wait for my reports. It is a rumor, you know—like GOLD or WHISKEY! In this case it’s CHEAP LAND! But just how much it is worth is another question. In South America, however, there is the consolation of knowing that if you don’t like the first 1000-mile tract, there are a good many others to choose from.
As for my shitty sarcasm, god knows my belly is full of it, but the fact that you’re already braced for it, knowing full well that you deserve it, has caused me to lose interest in loading it on you. First Semonin, then you, eh? Artistes. Well, you will have enough trouble without my sarcasm. If I were you I would stick to art. At least you can do it standing up. You will learn the importance of this when you develop your first case of piles, as I have. Now I know why Thomas Wolfe wrote on top of his icebox, and why Ernest Hemingway devised a special chest-high stand for his typewriter. They had the piles, McGarr, and you will get them too if you do enough writing to find out what a shitty job it is. And if you give it up before then, well, there’s always the drums or the jew’s harp—or the art of taking yourself seriously, which Mr. Semonin can explain. And there’s a certain art to pushing a hack, I suspect; or even in doing the Pirogue Stomp in Washington Square on a Sunday afternoon. Art is all around us, McGarr; it’s wonderful to know.
Things here are as vicious and pressing as I’ve ever known them. Between Sandy, the piles, the novel and South America, I am nearing the end of my rope. Any one of the last three would be enough to keep a man sweating 24 hours a day, an
d the reason for putting Sandy on the list is that she is in the hospital, recuperating from what I suspect was a serious operation. It was kept from me until the last moment, at which point she announced that daddy and the doctor had it all arranged. So my function now is to visit, bearing fruit, etc., and hope to god I don’t run into daddy. Anyway, she’s recovering, and will probably be out in a week or so.
In the meantime, I am pushing this stinking novel around the final turn. This is what I do at night, usually from nine to five, or so. During the days I wheel and deal with various punks and editors, rooting desperately for a subsidy for my South America tour, which could easily become a disaster without one. I am doing about as well as can be expected, which is depressing. But I am going anyway. Tomorrow I will find out if my piles require an operation. There is some talk of a fistula, but I try not to hear it. I hear voices now & then that tell me this novel will be my one and only work, but so far it is a bastard & I mean to finish it off in the same rabbit-punching style. Maybe 2 more weeks, maybe 3. Who knows? OK, that’s it. Got to get working. Write when you get published.
HST
TO DARYL MURPHY:
The arrival of a check from his mother inspired Thompson to buy whiskey and write letters to a dozen friends, including Murphy in Big Sur, who was considering becoming a high school teacher.
March 13, 1962
531 E. 81st
New York City
Dear Daryl—
Had an $800 windfall today & am now quite drunk on Old Crow. Also quite sick from a rotten cold, cough & general failure of health. Waiting now for sleeping pills to take effect so I can get to bed. Big day tomorrow—got to see various agents, editors, etc.—also order $400 camera & lenses from Hong Kong, also pay other debts, also write 20 pages on novel, also pack books & send them to Louisville, also, also, also … this hurry is driving me nuts.
Your last letter had a bit of zip in it. Good. I hate to think of you moping around out there. If you want to teach, get the hell at it and don’t pay any attention to me or anyone else. Even Mr. [George Bernard] Shaw, who said, “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.”
Since you asked.
OK. Had a big filet mignon dinner tonight and feel generally rich. Am beginning to think this is the only way I’ll ever feel that way, i.e.—temporarily, false economy, ignoring debts, blinding myself to the morrow’s expenditures, etc. But what the hell. It is a good & healthy thing to have a fine fat steak & a bottle of good Kentucky bourbon & order cameras from Hong Kong & generally feel rich. As I said. I am almost tempted to send Semonin some money, but I know it would spoil him. Guess I will anyway. Just a dollar or so for some absinthe.
Fine to hear you brimming & to hell with journalism if you say so. Personally, I have to live on it a while longer & a piss-poor living it is. I am looking forward to a none-too-distant day when I can QUIT. Yes. QUIT. I have rubbed all my guns with silicone waterproofing & put my dog in the care of decent people and I am now in the process of making one last rush at the world and its lunacy. Whatever comes of it won’t matter, good or bad, because somewhere in the distance I have a vision of mountains & space & quiet & a place to make beer and mumble around naked and shoot out the front door & not give a damn for much of anything but the weather. The world is not mad, as I thought, but sane in the cheapest kind of way. So chalk me up as mad & to hell with it.
I have read the National Observer & know this to be true. Smyrna, Del. is the axis of the earth & all reason emanates from there. The Bomb is good & we are all reasonable people due to our training in Rotary Clubs over the course of many years. God is on our side because we invented him. And if he wavers we’ll invent another one. If you can’t buy them, squash them. That’s the ticket.
OK. Mad & drunk I remain. Let me know your travel plans. I hesitate to suggest that you try South America instead of Europe, but what is hesitation anyway? If on the other hand you try Europe Semonin will be there until “summer,” and several other people are there also, for good or ill. Nonetheless, I’d enjoy bumping into you in Rio—again, for good or ill. In closing, I remain,
for good or ill,
HST
TO WILLIAM J. KENNEDY:
Thompson’s first port of call was to be Puerto Rico, where he hoped to write another voodoo story.
March 14, 1962
531 E. 81 Street
New York City
Bill—
OK. You go ahead & laugh about voodoo at Vacia Talega. I talked to Paul Harrison the other day (PRNS here) & he said when I stopped in San Juan I should definitely do a story on some festival they have out there—it must be voodoo. What else, out there in the wilds. So PRNS is coming around to voodoo & I think it’s a good sign. They didn’t come around quite far enough to buy an old photo I sent them out of desperation for even a single buck, but Harrison is a good guy & needless to say, knows I can handle voodoo like nobody’s business. I just wonder if Sontheimer will sign the check.
I warned Hazlett that I was coming through & he wrote back that he was going to Switzerland. I guess I will write Dorvillier now, & ask him for a job. That will complete the cycle.
Anyway, I still plan to leave here around April 1. Not with Sandy. Would very much appreciate a couch at your place for maybe two days or three, depending on what I can scrape up in the way of articles. If nobody wants anything on PR, I would stay 48 hours at most, then go to Aruba and the great jumpoff.
As for my rotten goddam books, you may as well admit they were too much for you to handle & I will deal with them when I get there. I just hope to god they’re in boxes like you say. As I recall, I left them all very neatly packed. You have probably been renting them out to meet the rum payments.
I will warn you again, at least 20 minutes before I arrive pale & half-naked and crazed with thirst. This time I’ll come in with a .44 Magnum in a shoulder holster and a 33 photo-lab strapped on my back. I take the damnedest pictures you’ve ever seen & even sell a few. None of the good ones, of course—just like the fiction.
As you predicted, Volkening did not take me on. He sounded fairly agreeable & said he was fleeing the country & wanted no part of me or my ilk, no matter what I had written. A young woman who works for him read ½ the book & said it was “hard & bitter” but she had some hope for it & would like to see it again on completion.
So would I. The thing is weighing heavily on me now. It is all that stands between me and Peru. My money is running out & I have to flee this town soon or perish. I’ve been sick most of the time I’ve been here & it is only a matter of time before it becomes permanent. I have given up all hope of the book actually getting published and now only think in terms of getting it finished.
Sandy is going to work for a travel agency & will handle my affairs here until I get settled in South America, then use the agency discount to fly down. That’s how it looks right now. If I go broke, of course, things will be different.
Semonin is in Madrid, holed up to work on his book. We have all gone mad, I think. He expects to be there a few months & would feel mightily cheered if you dropped him a line c/o Am. Exp., Madrid. Europe has not been real good to him—the icons are all smashed.
Said hello to Bone for you. He is restless. My plans are to see you soon. For god’s sake don’t rat on me.
HST
TO JIM THOMPSON:
With “The Rum Diary” finished and Latin America looming, Thompson caught up with his brother.
April 17, 1962
GPO Box 1049
New York, New York
Dear Jim:
Sorry not to have written in so long, but the past two weeks have been an awful strain. I finished the book and gave it to an agent—should hear something soon. Whatever I hear, I plan to leave New York either Sunday or Monday. I’ll stay a few days then go on to Aruba, a small island off the coast of Venezuela. From there I’ll get a boat to Caracas, and after that I can’t say, except that I’ll head down the west side of the continent, via Colombia, P
eru, Bolivia, etc. My plan at the moment is to wind up in Rio de Janeiro, where I have made contact with the editor of the paper there, who seems like a fine fellow.10 This is all pretty vague, but so am I right now and it’s the best I can do. My money is very low and there may even come a time when I have to write home for a grant-in-aid to pull me through a bad spot. I hope not, but I’ll have to see how it turns out. I’ll probably send some articles to the Courier-Journal (Sunday), so you’ll be able to keep up with me that way. Naturally, I’ll write, too.
Your trip in New Orleans sounds fine. I know almost all the places you mentioned—Biloxi, Roosevelt, Pat O’Brians, Court of Two Sisters—and have been to them all except Ship Island. I knew you would have a good time once you got going. Things usually turn out that way. It is also very good to hear things are going well at home. I’ll feel a lot better taking off for South America without having to worry about that.
Aunt Lee sent a letter the other day, but I couldn’t read much of it. I think she said Cousin Margurite had a wreck in a car. I hope it wasn’t a bad one, but then it didn’t sound that way, from what I could make out in the letter.
The man downstairs is beating on the floor and yelling about calling the police. It is four in the morning and I guess the typewriter jars his nerves. They have hauled all the furniture out of this apartment except for one bed, and I am sitting on the floor with the t-writer on an old trunk and all my papers & junk spread out around me. The stray cats are screaming outside, I am drinking the home beer, Sandy is asleep, and tomorrow I have to get up at nine to get a smallpox vaccination. Yesterday I had my yellow fever shot. When I pack all this stuff I’ll send a lot of it home, so be prepared. Also, if I get any mail at that address, hold onto it until I send a forwarding address, then send it as quickly as possible.