Big Sur is no phony colony, no tourist attraction full of souvenirs and arty knick-knacks. You don’t just float in, throw up your problems, and begin the goat-dance. It takes a tremendous capacity for remaining self-sufficient and a hell of a lot of hard work. If you come here looking for something to join or to lean on for support, you are in for a bad time.
In his book on Big Sur, Miller describes the people he found here when he came. Some of them, depressed by the influx of tourists, have left for other, more isolated spots—Mexico, the Pacific Northwest, or the Greek Islands. But many are still here, living the same way they were ten years ago:
These young men, usually in their late twenties or early thirties … are not concerned with undermining a vicious system, but with leading their own lives—on the fringe of society. It is only natural to find them gravitating toward such places as Big Sur. They all arrived here by different paths, each with his own purpose, and one as different from the other as marbles from dice. But all “naturals.” All somewhat “peculiar” in the eyes of the ordinary run. All of them, to my mind, men of service, men of good will, men of strong integrity. Each and every one of them fed up with the scheme of things, determined to free themselves of the treadmill, lead their own lives. None of them demanding anything more fantastic of life than the right to live after his own fashion. None of them adhering to any party, doctrine, cult or ism, but all imbued with very strong, very definite ideas as to how life can be lived in these evil times. Never crusading for their ideas, but doing their utmost to put them into practice. Putting above everything—human dignity. Difficult sometimes, especially where “trifles” are concerned, yet always available in genuine emergencies. Stone deaf when asked to toe the line.
These are the expatriates, the ones who have come from all over the world to make a stab at The Good Life. But there are others, too. Some are ranchers whose families have lived here for generations. Others are out-and-out bastards, who live in isolation because they can’t live anywhere else. A few are genuine deviates, who live here because nobody cares what they do as long as they keep to themselves. And there are people here of no integrity, no good will, no service and no apparent worth at all.
In some respects Big Sur is closer to New York and Paris than to Monterey and San Francisco. To the writers and photographers who live here just a few months of the year, New York is the axis of the earth—where the publishers are, where the assignments originate and where all the checks are signed. And once the checks are cashed, Paris is the next stop after that. It’s keep moving until the money runs out, then back to Big Sur. In their minds, San Francisco is a bar, Monterey is a grocery store, and L.A. is a circus a few hundred miles down the road.
Others, primarily the painters and sculptors, look north to Carmel, with its many art galleries, craft-centers and wallet-heavy tourists.
Visitors to Big Sur—those who are actually invited—are more likely to be artists, foreign journalists or world-travelers than ordinary vacationers. There are no hotels here, the motels are small and devoid of entertainment, and the only nightlife revolves around Nepenthe, which is closed five months of the year. Most of the people who live here are jealous of their privacy, and nothing annoys them more than a curious intruder. A man sitting on the rocks with a can of beer, watching the sunset or the whales passing out to sea, is not as a rule very happy to explain his way of life to a traveling salesman who stops to “talk to one of the natives.”
Jerry Gorsline, who spent the first eighteen years of his life in New York and now lives on an abandoned mining claim twenty-five miles south of Hot Springs, is happy enough to have no visitors at all. Once or twice a week he will drive up the coast to borrow some books, put in a day’s work for a man who is building a new wing on his house, or pass a few beery hours in the hot sulphur baths. He grows most of his own food, makes his own wine, cooks on a wood-stove, and keeps in touch with his friends in Europe, where he lived for two years before coming to Big Sur.
Lionel Olay, a writer, lives far back in the hills with a girl and two dogs. He spends a few days of every month in Hollywood, picking up assignments, but he does his writing in Big Sur. When he gets money he moves off at a high rate of speed—Mexico, Cuba, Spain, and finally back to Big Sur.
King Hutchinson, on the other hand, has been here for three years and has no intention of leaving. He is one of many who live “the seven-five split”: seven months working at Nepenthe and five on unemployment insurance.
Don Bloom is a painter. He lives on what he earns and pays $25 a month for one of the finest houses on the coast. He gets along without electricity, has one of the best gardens in Big Sur, and spends a good part of the day on his porch, staring at the sea.
This is the way life goes in Big Sur: waiting for the mail, watching the sea-lions in the surf or the freighters on the horizon, sitting in the tubs at Hot Springs, once in a while a bit of drink—and, most of the time, working at whatever it is that you came here to work on, whether it be painting, writing, gardening or the simple art of living your own life.
What—and whom—you find here depends largely on where you look. Partington Ridge, for instance, is Big Sur’s answer to Park Avenue. Nicholas Roosevelt lives there; so does Sam Hopkins, of the Top 0’ the Mark (Hopkins Hotel) clan. Visiting luminaries—Dylan Thomas, Arthur Krock, Clare Boothe Luce, to name a few—are usually quartered on Partington, and when they sit down to eat they are not likely to be served wild mustard greens.
A little further down the coast, however, is the Murphy property, including Hot Springs, where the combined rental on nine dwellings is $176 a month. This place is a real menagerie, flavored with everything from bestiality to touch football. The barn rents for $15, the farmhouse for $40, and a shack in the canyon goes for $5. Emil White lives here, and if you could call him a publisher, the list of tenants would read something like this: one photographer, one bartender, one carpenter, one publisher, one writer, one fugitive, one metal-sculptor, one Zen Buddhist, one lawyer, and three people who simply defy description—sexually, socially or any other way. There are only two legitimate wives on the property; the other females are either mistresses, “companions,” or hopeless losers. Until recently the shining light of this community was Dennis Murphy, the novelist, whose grandmother owns the whole shebang. When his book, The Sergeant, became a bestseller, he was hounded night and day, by people who would drive 100s of miles to jabber at him and drink his liquor. After a few months of this, he moved up the coast to Monterey.
Old Mrs. Murphy lives across the mountains in Salinas, and, luckily, gets to Big Sur only two or three times a year. Her husband, the late Dr. Murphy, conceived this place as a great health spa, a virtual bastion of decency and clean living. But something went wrong. During World War Two it became a haven for draft dodgers, and over the years it has evolved into a lonely campground for the morally deformed, a pandora’s box of human oddities, and a popular sinkhole of idle decadence.
The whole of Big Sur will probably stop somewhere short of this. Miller, in one of his rosier moods, said this coast would one day be the Riviera of America. Maybe so, but it will take quite a while. And in the meantime it will be as good an imitation of Valhalla as this country can offer, and one of the finest places in the world to sit naked in the sun and read The New York Times.
TO WILLIAM J. KENNEDY, SAN JUAN STAR:
July 21, 1961
Big Sur, California
Dear William:
Your long-ago reaction to my comment about “oiling literary levers” was just another link in the long chain of your humor-failures. I could cite other examples—but, for the sake of decency, I won’t. Anyway, I was kidding.
But I will take issue with you on the subject of what Styron has to say. As far as I’m concerned, he said it ten years ago. His last thing was a disappointment.14
I think I told you that all your missives arrived. Many thanx. The pipe rack is hung, the cups are in use, and I was very happy, for several reasons, to
get the Stars.15 Now, if you can just send those damn books, I won’t have to write to you anymore.
I am, incidentally, quite capable of reimbursing all costs of shipment. I have just whacked Rogue magazine for $350—3 Big Sur article with Thompson photos—and am feeling like the Prince of the West. I know this doesn’t sound like much money to you salaried folks, but to me it was like a fortune from the sky. It was not so much the money, but the feeling that I had finally cracked something, the first really valid indication that I might actually make a living at this goddamn writing. Right after I got the check I sent out every story I had, and if every one of them bounces it won’t faze me a bit. I have tasted blood and it was OK.
The Rum Diary, since you ask, is more than halfway done. It is a novel that will be about 200 pages long and I have every reason to believe it will put me over the hump. It is set, of course, in Puerto Rico and I imagine you will not find all of it unfamiliar. Nor will Sontheimer.16 In a twisted way, it will do for San Juan what The Sun Also Rises did for Paris. I expect to finish it around September. […]
The map of San Juan was a real help, by the way. My bourgeois imagination could never produce anything like Calle O’Leary, Avenida Eduardo Conde, or Calle Dr. Stahl—nor could my memory hold everything that a map brings back to me; the midnight roar of a scooter on Calle Magdalena, the sweating wait for a bus in front of the University, or the morning sun on that long stretch of Munoz Rivera between Sixto Escobar stadium and El Morro. If my memory were as good as I’d claim it was if anyone asked me, I wouldn’t need a map. But.…
As for the Stars, I thought the Dominican Republic coverage was championship stuff. You people are damn lucky to have a guy like Lidin down there; he’s a real ace.17 I’m not saying this solely on the basis of the Trujillo stuff, because I would have said the same thing last year when I was there.
As I look back over those issues, though, I think that “Vain Publicity Hound” item by Walter Priest was one of the best things I’ve read in years. His lead was a classic; it should be saved.
The rest of the paper—except for the little Pulitzer Prize note on the masthead—looked pretty much the same. Reston, McGill and Mauldin dress up the editorial page, but why not try a lineup like this: Reston, Lippmann and Herblock? Or knock off Reston and keep McGill. Reston is suffering these days from the Liberal Malady. Like all the others, he backed a winner and found himself disarmed as of January 20th. When you’re riding shotgun, it’s bad form to shoot at the driver—a far cry from the good old days when you could snipe from a distance.
But that’s politics and I’m pretty bitter about it right now. JFK is a phony, I think, and I’m not quite sure where that leaves us. As for me, I’m writing my own platform. You will see it in The Rum Diary.
Bone was here for 24 hours last week, heading for San Francisco to seek a job. It was good to see him and we had a few good words before he left again. I’ve always thought Bone was basically one of the most decent people I’ve ever come across. His instincts are good, and no amount of travel and sloppy sophistication can hide the fact that he’s a good-hearted hick with nowhere to go. I suppose he will come to a dull end, but I hope not. When he left here he was right on the verge of marrying some girl from New Zealand, but I understand she left for London without tying him up. As of now, he plans to meet her there in the fall or early winter. […]
Well, this has been a good excuse for not working on the novel for an hour or so. My home-made beer has given me a shitting frenzy and rendered me incapable of writing anything but letters.
With the Rogue money I bought a pistol and a Doberman and a lot of whiskey, and now a man up the road has put the sheriff on me for shooting while drunk and keeping a vicious dog.
In the long run I will probably lose, but until then I will set a mean pace.
If you want to keep some books, do—and if you want to send them all and let me pay, do that. Us rich writers don’t give me a damn.
Noisily,
Hunter
TO ANN SCHOELKOPF:
On duty as night guard at the baths, Thompson had gotten into a brutal fight with a group of gay men from San Francisco.
August 4, 1961
Big Sur, California
I am stopping in the middle of a goddamn chapter to write this & it won’t be long. It’s 3:30 am here & I am rolling like a bastard train—but it suddenly dawned on me that I owed you a letter and a bit of news.
Anyway, I am about to be evicted for splitting a queer’s head with that billy club I got from Fred. Maxine [Ambus] & me & that club tackled 15 queers in an outdoor bathhouse the other night & I was stomped, but not before doing extensive damage. Before that I shot out my windows and blasted all the glasses. The people who live around here are up in arms & the sheriff, who has been to me twice on the subject of violence, will undoubtedly come again.
I am sleeping most of the day and working all night every night in a desperate attempt to finish this book before they cast me adrift. It is a good one and I can’t afford to lose control before I get it done.
Fred should be shot in the balls.18 I don’t blame him for trying to hang onto the money, but if I were you I’d deal hard and heavy with him until I got it. You can’t play city rules when you live in a jungle. If you can’t get the money, run him down and take a pound of flesh.
McGarr & Eleanor were here & it was terrible. They bitched 24 hours a day & several times I had to leave. Bone arrived with a woman in the middle of the McGarr visit & Maxine arrived at the end of it. It almost did me in. An hour before they left I fell on the bed in a fit of screaming. I was trying to hold it off, but couldn’t. Bone was pretty good, if only by contrast, but then he only stayed a day & a night. I don’t see how people tolerate visitors—especially one like me. It’s a wonder I’m not dead.
I am surrounded by lunatics here, people screeching every time I pull a trigger, yelling about my blood-soaked shirt, packs of queers waiting to do me in, so many creditors that I’ve lost count, a huge Doberman on the bed, a pistol by the desk, time passing, getting balder, no money, a great thirst for all the world’s whiskey, my clothes rotting in the fog, a motorcycle with no light, a landlady who’s writing a novel on butcher-paper, wild boar in the hills and queers on the road, vats of homemade beer in the closet, shooting cats to ease the pressure, the jabbering of Buddhists in the trees, whores in the canyons, christ only knows if I can last it out.
Maxine is not happy out here. I don’t see her often & every time I do we have drunken violence. I may shoot her.
A storm threatens, a shitrain, a torrent of toads. I may weather it, but only if I get some MONEY from those bastards who have it all. They say cannon is the final argument of kings and it may not be long before I present a royal plea for my share of the booty. I have found that most people harbor a real fear of having a little piece of lead blasted through their flesh & the drunker I get the more it amuses me.
Semonin is due soon, steaming in from Aspen & scheduled to shove off for Tangiers on October 15. I will enjoy seeing him if I am still here. That’s it for now—discreetly,
Hunter
TO MRS. V. A. MURPHY:
When Thompson’s Big Sur article appeared in Rogue, his landlady evicted him on the grounds that not only was he always drunk and pistol-crazed, but that he was spreading gossip in a smutty magazine.
August 13, 1961
Big Sur, California
Dear Mrs. Murphy:
Your visit yesterday was quite a shock to me and I thought I should write this letter to assure you that I am not at all happy with the idea of being evicted and will go to great lengths to avoid it.
Primarily, I shall call a halt to my shooting and keep the demon rum at an arm’s length—at least at a safe distance.
It’s my considered opinion that reports of my wild behavior are greatly exaggerated. I have never threatened anyone with a whip, for instance, and indeed the only violence I can recall occurred when I was attacked by a large gang of homosexua
ls. Perhaps Mrs. Webb has visions outside the realm of religion—this would not surprise me at all.
At any rate, I shall fix Kay’s19 windows and, as you suggested, retreat down to the rocks or up in the canyon whenever I feel the need to shoot. You sounded very worried about the gun, but it is only a .22 caliber pistol, the smallest you can buy. It is duly registered in Sacramento and, since I never carry it concealed, I don’t need that kind of permit. I assure you that it’s quite legal.
Perhaps now, with summer coming to an end, it will be a bit more peaceful here. The only time I’ve had any difficulty was when the place was overrun with people. Also, when Mike and Dick20 take over the lodge I think the situation will improve considerably down here.
Thanks for your patience. You might be interested to know that I sold a short story today and am more than halfway through my novel. For the next few months I shall work exclusively on that and abjure all violence and wild drinking bouts. Then, when I want some excitement, I’ll take a vacation in the West Indies and drink rum and fight with sharks. Until then, I remain,
very peacefully,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO FRANK ROBINSON, ROGUE:
At long last Thompson had sold a short story—“Easy Come, Easy Go”—to a magazine. The triumph encouraged him to keep working on “The Rum Diary.”
August 14, 1961
Big Sur, California
Frank Robinson
Rogue
1236 Sherman Ave.
Evanston, Ill.
Dear Mr. Robinson:
You’ll be happy to know that your check for “Easy Come, Easy Go” has paid for a .44 Magnum, “the ultimate handgun.” It will knock a motor-block off its mounts, destroy a small tree, and disembowel a boar at 100 yards. No man should be without one.
Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967 Page 36