Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967

by Hunter S. Thompson

  Your theories about my life here are just about what I expected, so I won’t waste much time on them. Suffice it to say that you’re right about my sadism having free rein in Big Sur. So much so, in fact, that I can get it out of my system with no trouble at all. Now, instead of dissipating my energy in a stupid search for excitement, I can flash it off with two hours in the hills and approach the rest of my day in a rested frame of mind. If this makes me “sick,” so be it. Terms like that one have just about lost their meaning anyway, except for people who think a word is a fact.

  As I said in my last letter, Semonin was here and I enclose a relic of his visit. You should see him soon and I want you to show him this photo and see what he says. I will write him as soon as I know he’s in Spain. Those trips have a way of going off in strange directions. Your talk of Europe makes the place sound horribly trite, so trite in fact that I have just about given up any interest I might have had in making the trip. I see Europe as a crowded museum, a quaint showcase for a world no longer up to par. My best to the Germans, god damn their cheap militant hearts. If it comes to war and bombs and that business, I only hope I can get a few Germans in my sights. I sense a decency about the Russians, but the Germans strike me as a race of two-legged sharks—clever, efficient and dangerously stupid.

  Now for news—Maxine had a wreck and had 100 stitches in her head. I haven’t seen her; the word comes from Clancy, who has been evicted from his San Francisco hovel. That’s about all the news I can think of. Maxine is going east, she says, presumably for ever. God only knows what will become of her; I’d rather not ponder it.

  That’s about the ballgame, McGarr. I’ll be here until they root me out. Send a few words of abuse when you get a chance. I am thinking of sailing to Hawaii and a hunting trip to Vancouver, then Mexico and South America. Chile may have what it takes, whatever in hell that may be. I’m beginning to wonder. What does it take? I guess some of us will find out. And I leave you with that.

  Curiously, HST

  TO WILLIAM J. KENNEDY:

  With tensions in Big Sur running high, Thompson retreated to Louisville while Sandy headed to New York to earn some holiday money. Thompson, still trying to find a home for “The Rum Diary,” offered Kennedy some tips on the world of New York publishing.

  October 21, 1961

  Big Sur, California

  Willie—got your card yesterday & was taken aback by the arrow on the front, pointing to “our apartment.” Whose apartment? Have you moved back to Chinatown? I guess it’s not too odd, considering your San Juan background. Who are you stringing for down there?

  Anyway, don’t send any books to Big Sur. Hang onto them until I give a new word. I have been evicted. The old lady who owns this place didn’t like her mention in Rogue. As of now it looks like we’ll be moving east in about ten days. Sandy is heading to New York to work, and me to Louisville to finish the book. It’s been going badly for a month or so; I’m writing more and saying less. The agent refused it, saying the characters were “uninteresting.” There’s no dealing with that kind of criticism—it’s about the last thing I expected. “A perfectly acceptable novel,” he added, “but.…” And so we beat on, boats against the current.…

  Hope you are having better luck with yours. Viking is a decent outfit, I think, but a tough nut to crack. I might suggest to you a lady editor at a press called Appleton-Century-Crofts—Bobs Pinkerton—who found it within herself to treat my last book as if it was something I’d worked on, rather than something I’d clipped out of a magazine and submitted as an afterthought. She sent a reader’s report, plus a long letter of her own. Then she answered some questions and offered to look at the book again if and when I got it straightened out. I never even finished the thing, of course, so I can’t wrap this up with a happy ending. But it’s a thought.

  A rumor has reached me—to get off on another subject—that the editorship of the Tortola Times is up for grabs. Could you check this for me? I don’t even know who to write. With your vast contacts in the Carib press, I thought you might know somebody over there. The paper is a farce, as I recall, but just the kind of thing I’d like if they paid even a minimum salary. If you can find out anything, write me at the Louisville address. Louisville is my Albany.

  I’m assuming that this letter will reach you via San Juan. Have you finished the book? If so, what now? If you get any offers not lucrative or prestigious enough for your tastes, keep in mind that I’ll be looking for employment, assignments, paid travel, etc. as of about January 1. I’ve now added photography to my list of skills—those Rogue photos were mine—and can tackle just about anything with a little zip to it.

  Speaking of zip, Semonin should be in Tangier about now. He was here for a week, a fine week full of drinking and shooting, and we passed the time in a frenzy of incestuous criticism. He’s about 150 pages into a novel, a laborious tormented document that needs a lot of work and relaxation to make it edible. Of course my tastes are narrow, so this is just an opinion.

  Anyway, let me hear from you, and hang on to the books. When my plans begin to gel, I’ll send word. Or maybe they’ll never gel, maybe I’ll never be anywhere long enough for you to send the books to me. Time and luck will tell.

  Hello to Dana and kudos to the children. Balls to everybody else.

  HST

  TO ELEANOR MCGARR:

  November 10, 1961

  Louisville, Kentucky

  Eleanor—

  Ah yes, around and around we go, forever seeking the lost axis, the big Equalizer that Santa Claus took with him when he died. And now, lo and behold, I crouch in the bowels of the Highlands, seeking something, mostly waiting, thinking, killing time, procrastinating, drinking instant coffee by the gallon, reading and re-reading my half-born book and wondering now and then if I will ever write anything but the occasional bright word of the horny traveler. Five good pages in a 15-page story might not win the pennant, but it’s a hardnose average and I’ll buy it any day. On the other hand, 10 good pages in 200 (with 100 to go) is twice as many good pages as five, but as an average it sucks wind. I guess the moral is pretty obvious—write short-shorts—and that’ll do for a while, but every now and then a man needs to launch a real wadbuster and that’s about the way I’m feeling. You can hit the target all day with a .22, but when you want to knock a motor-block off its mounts you move in close with a .44 Magnum. Yeah.

  Christ, the mail just came and that bastard Ed the mailman25 whacked me with a bill for $76 for the month of October. It’s about twice what I owe, at best, but god only knows how I can dispute it, with him holding all the figures. This fucking debt is driving me nuts—every time I turn around somebody is dunning me for something. If I don’t make some money soon I’m going to start stealing it. This bill has ruined my day.

  On top of that, I left a box full of my life’s work in Glenwood Springs—all my stories, articles, photos, letters, everything I’ve ever written is in that box and it’s about 4 days overdue by RR Express. If they’ve lost it I think that will just about do the trick, I’ll just give up and get a job.

  Well, enough of that. It’s raining in the Highlands, a stiff pounding on the roof outside my window. First rain I’ve seen since April. Memo went to meet her maker and I am now in her room, with Agar on the bed and a big rack of pistols and whips and clubs on the wall, a big vat of beer working on the radiator and a whole shelf full of bullet-making equipment. I got that big .357 Magnum that Joel was selling, the one you saw when you went into town with us. Now it hangs useless on the wall beside my head, a dirty black hog-buster and all the hogs 2000 miles away. I may sell the bastard.

  Through the empty house floats the voice of Joanie Baez, an eerie sound to my restless ears. I expect to look out the window and see the hills or the ocean—but no dice, only Ransdell Avenue, grey and wet and full of so many ghosts and memories that I get the Fear whenever I go outside. At night, beneath the ageless streetlight, I see Ching and Duke Rice and David Comfort on a red bike with no
fenders, Ollie Spencer leaning out the window of that blue Chevy and Pinky beside him like a magpie, Barnes with a cigarette, frogging Ching with malicious glee, a shout, the sound of a bike falling on the curb, then the shallow roar of a Chevy engine as Ollie bucks off up the hill with Barnes on the fender and Ching’s hat beside him on the seat.26 Mean childhood laughter and a bruised arm, streetlights and elm trees and a red bike with no fenders, the taste of a secret pipe on a winter walk, a green sweater with a dirty white C on the chest, no homework and a million lazy tomorrows stretched out like a rubber band that somebody will let go of pretty soon and then it won’t be a million at all, but only a few, a rotten withering few before the big hump. And after that, the craziness.

  I think I’ve put my finger on it—the craziness. Over the hump to Crazyville, talk a while, then hurry off, first South, then West, and finally East. God help us—North is all we have left.

  I’ll crack my spleen if I keep talking like this. You may wonder how I got here. Don’t know if you got my quick letter from the train. Anyway, I was evicted because of that article, a friend of Ted Klemens27 showed up and hauled our traveling gear to San Francisco, Sandy flew East courtesy of papa and is now working in New York for a collection agency, and Agar and I went to Aspen. An alarming queerness in that move—believe it or not, the only car I could get in San Francisco was going to Aspen. Some woman named Jonas, who came to San Francisco and bought a whole carload of oriental straw goods, all of it delicate, then flew back to Aspen and waited for somebody stupid enough to pay for all the gas it would take to deliver the shit to her door. There, of all people, come I—needing cheap transportation for my gear and my dog, agreeing over the phone to drive this car as far as Aspen for an added bonus of $15 from the agency because they couldn’t find anybody else. I had built a huge crate for Agar and when I found all that shit in the car I strapped the crate on top and stuffed it with birdcages, parasols, balsa-wood stools, rice-paper doilies, and took off across the desert at top speed with Agar on the seat beside me and all my gear in the trunk. I moved in a manner that reminded me of the Fat City—with that huge crate on top, the car tended to move in a crabwise fashion whenever I headed into the wind. On a reach, I would leap 3 or 4 feet to the leeward each time I hit a bump. Needless to say, I got about 12 miles to the gallon, even in a Lark. I arrived in Aspen with $2, drunk as a loon, sliding violently in the snow, and found a man named Ivan Abrams. I figured I would find a team of hardnose travelers to take me in for the night, but there was nothing. I fell on Abrams, carrying a gallon of wine, and after a bit of drinking he directed me to Peggy Clifford,28 who saved the day. She gave me drink, offered me a couch, and took me over to see the Jonas woman, who was drunk and told me to come back tomorrow for my $50 deposit. I was given more drink at that place and finally, upon coming back to Peggy’s house to eat, I collapsed in a drunken heap—literally fell apart, disintegrated before her eyes. The next morning, with no time to see the Jonas woman, I fled into Glenwood to get the train. Peggy gave me the money, which I think was yours, and said she would get it back from Jonas. I figured she knew what she was doing and since she didn’t seem too eager to have me around for another night, I moved on. No word from her, so I guess things went off well. Had no time even to see your house—I was going to go up with the big pistol and put the Fear in that guy who moved in. You may have trouble on that, but Peggy seems competent enough, so I imagine she’ll get the money if it’s there to be got. If not, I may head west again after Xmas, and I can stop by and bellow at him until he does something.

  You know the rest—train to Chicago, Agar & crate in baggage car, 10-hour layover, which I used to protest editing of my work (Chicago Tribune) and trace a lost story (Playboy)—also to see La Dolce Vita, which I recommend. Then sleep to Lou.

  Spent the past weekend in Nashville, went down with family for UK-Vandy [University of Kentucky vs. Vanderbilt] game and got drunk with Davison and a bunch of his head-knocking friends. Now back here to The Rum Diary and the ghosts. I have called nobody but [Hume] Logan and venture out of the house only to run Agar in the park. Pawned the rifle this morning & put $10 down on a Luger. The guns will be my undoing.

  I have before me your last letter, written in Louisville. I tried to get it published, but it was rejected on the grounds that most of it was cribbed from Alfred Kazin and Scott Fitzgerald. Sorry. Try again, you know—and all that shit.

  McGarr’s letter came via Big Sur and, as usual, I cannot get hold of it. What the fuck is he doing with himself? Eating—I know that, he always mentions that. And drinking, of course. Aside from that, he mentions nothing except brochure-type descriptions of the landscape. He berates me, of course, something about my style this time—and my attitude—but all that is pretty old by now and, besides, I’m a little weary of being edited. Anyway, try to find out what he’s up to, what he thinks he means, and send word.

  As for me, I mean only what I say, and it’s never quite right. I’ll keep at it here until Xmas or so, then shove off. Where, I can’t say. One of the main factors will be your report from Europe. McGarr has been there for more than a year now, and all I know about the place is what it looks like and how much it costs. I want to know if it has any balls—that’s the main thing and you’ll have to tip me off.

  If not Europe, I may retreat to the West. If not Big Sur, then up to Idaho or maybe the north California coast. All this precludes the possibility that somebody might publish the book. If so, things will be different. Jo Hudson should finish the boat by June and may go out to Hawaii, then back to Vancouver for the shooting in those islands, bear and that sort of thing: caribou, elk. If the boat holds up, he wants to take it to Europe, which would be the right way to do it, I think. All this is leading up to the fact that I’m keeping an eye on him; if the boat works, I may hire on. The ever-present alternative is to hire myself out to whomever and wherever will pay me, and hang on till I’m fired. About the first of December I will start casting around. Until then, I’m buried here in this room.

  Your comments on Big Sur and your stay made that week even better in retrospect than it was at the time. But it was a wadbuster, even then. Sorry I couldn’t send the meat, but it would have had to go to Malaga, Am. Exp., and I didn’t figure they’d be real happy to keep it until you showed up. It was damn good, by the way. When you get back we’ll get another one—no rifles this time, only pistols and hobnail boots.

  Send the word and tell McGarr I’ll answer his letter as soon as I get drunk.

  Hunter

  TO ARTICLES EDITOR, ATLANTIC MONTHLY:

  Fascinated by right-wing politics, Thompson pitched a piece on the John Birch Society; the Atlantic Monthly was not interested.

  November 21, 1961

  2437 Ransdell Ave.

  Louisville 4, Kentucky

  Dear Sir:

  For the past week or so I’ve been mulling over an article idea that might interest you. It concerns the John Birch Society—not the obvious things like facts and figures, but the people and the reasons that prompted them to join.

  I began thinking about this when I came back to Louisville after four years of living like a vagrant writer in New York, California and the Caribbean. This naturally altered my perspective a bit, and when I came back to the town where I spent the first 20 years of my life, most of my old friends appeared to be arch-reactionaries. Most of them seemed to have got that way almost by default; they didn’t really want to talk about it, but if I pressed them they would invariably come up with the ancient and honorable Jeffersonian concepts that most of us were taught in high school. They were pretty frankly bored with the whole business and they wanted to talk about something else—maybe their new children, their jobs as bank trainees and salesmen, or the frightful possibility of their reserve units being activated.

  So much for the majority. You will find them everywhere and quite enough has been written about them—the sluggish American, may he rest in peace.

  But others were more vocal and f
ar more interesting. One, in particular, is the fiery young turk of his local John Birch cell. His parents, whom I know and like, were incipient Birchers before anyone ever heard of either Birch or the Society. This threw me a little off balance, because I’d worked up an active distaste for what I considered a pack of neo-nazis and I was not sure how to take these people. I drove out to their home on the river, up the winding driveway to their house, and when I sat down in their living room with a glass of bourbon and one of their beagles gnawing on my foot it was hard to see them as nazis and rabid slanderers.

  This is what I’d like to write about—John Birch at home, as it were. I’ve been to a meeting, but you don’t learn much there; not about the people, anyway. Most of them don’t say anything at all. They just sit there and listen to the few champions who tell them the score and what it means. Only when they relax at home can you find out why they went to the meeting, why they joined in the first place, their own ideas on where this is headed, their doubts, their occasional uncertainties (“Is Ike really a Red?”) and, in short, that vital third dimension that you never get in newspapers.

  Because a “Bircher” is more than just that: he can be a father, an employer, a doctor, he usually has children and he worries about the kind of world they’ll grow up in, he’s certainly not sluggish and almost always articulate, and more often than not he’s financially and socially secure. Yet he pays his dues, faithfully attends his cell meetings, and there’s no telling what else he might do if he thought—or was convinced—that the need were dire enough.

  As I look back over the first page of this letter, the language seems pretty stilted. So I’m enclosing a short thing I did recently for the Chicago Tribune. If nothing else, it is not stilted.

  As for me, I’m a writer, a journalist, a photographer, a traveler, a seeker of some kind—and, generally, anything I have to be. If it occurs to you that I’m trying to sell you a slam at the “extreme right,” forget it. I’m not. Politics can be interesting, but I prefer people.