Another thing: thanks (to you or whoever did the deed) for carrying the Hell’s Angels book so long on the “New and Recommended” list. After my somewhat qualified comments on the Times in the book, I was overwhelmed to the point of being addled at the decency of your reaction.
At first I thought it was a sort of massive retaliation in the way of turning the other cheek, but the other day I got a call from Harvey Shapiro (on the [New York Times Sunday] magazine), asking if I wanted to do a piece on the history and meaning of almost everything—with anecdotes, personality sketches, geography and wisdom—in 4000 words or less.… I immediately saw the pattern: Benevolent Crucifixion. But I think I might surprise the bastard … and then where will we be? I might have to retire.
OK for now, and thanks again for a good lunch, a good talk and your good ear.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO KEN LAMOTT, LOS ANGELES TIMES:
April 20, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Mr. Lamott.…
I was just reading your piece in West9 on the Golden Gate Be-In and remembered that I’ve been meaning to write you for a month or so to say thanks for your Book Week review of my Hell’s Angels saga. I haven’t had time to sit clown and read all the reviews with a hard critic’s eye, but I read them all at least once on the run, and—at the risk of sounding like a fraud and a flatterer—I recall yours as being the best and most perceptive of the lot. As a matter of fact it surprised me; I’ve read some of your other reviews and I remember that some of them read like they’d been written with a hatchet. So if anyone had told me that you were going to review my book for BW, I would not have looked forward to reading it. Needless to say, it came as a very happy surprise.
And so much for that. I’m reading your West piece in connection with a desperate rush job on the Haight-Ashbury for The New York Times Magazine … and I was struck by the weird similarity of your comments on Dr. Tim [Leary] and my own rude judgments in an already written first draft. It makes me uneasy to find myself in agreement with a self-confessed old fogey, but what the hell? I’ll be 30 this summer. Here’s the deal: I’ll trade you a pound of my fallen hair for one knit tie and a pair of Playboy cufflinks. That seems fair.
OK for now. I was in San Francisco last week, but I got mixed up with a rotten crowd. Next time I get over I’ll give you a ring and maybe we can have a drink—if booze is still legal. Again, thanks for reading my book without a pre-cocked hatchet … and also for hearing the music, for good or ill.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO JIM SILBERMAN, RANDOM HOUSE:
Thompson moved into an abandoned, dilapidated ranch house fifteen miles outside of Aspen. He dubbed it Owl Farm and began massive renovations.
May 13, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Jim.…
This is my first letter in the new house, new desk, new writing room, etc.… painted red, white and blue by a dope freak that I hired from the trailer court. But the old music prevails … right now it’s Dylan’s “Desolation Row,” wailing out of an alcove full of paint cans and dirty brushes. And Sandy’s still in bed with her half-happened miscarriage. [ … ] I’ve had to hire a girl to wash dishes and take care of Juan.
I’m doing the hiring these days … which brings me to the point: Rather than get hung up in a long series of letters you never answer anyway I think I’ll call and ask you some questions about money. You’re aware, I think, that I’ve so for received a total of $1,000 on Hell’s Angels. This does not seem equitable in light of even a 20,000 sale. I’m not happy with the apparent death of sales, but then I can’t really know figures or even the business, so what the hell? Anytime you want to talk about altering the money situation on that second contract, just let me know. Right now I’m just coasting along on article sales, waiting for [Scott] Meredith’s contract to run out. Selma is the best agent I’ve ever had … she’s the only one who’s ever put me in touch with money people. I just sold a second-rate piece to the Times, which should be out tomorrow, and a weird, unclassifiable thing to Pageant, which is due in July. Both Selma’s work. And now I’m working on a piece for Harper’s, which allegedly sold through Meredith. It’s already a month late, but I’m not hurrying because I don’t believe anything that comes from Meredith anyway. I think he’s blown his mind; he’s now signing himself “Sydney.” Other people keep writing me, talking of lucrative sales in strange lands, but I never see any checks so I just put the letters in my big box. Devaney quit and wrote me a letter confirming most of what I suspected all along … jesus, how do you stand that business?
Now … here’s a thing I wish you wouldn’t ignore or shunt off to your file-clerk in the basement: I’d like an assignment from somebody to do a piece on the great “Grand Canyon Be-In” later this month, or maybe in June if the current rumor proves out. Anyway, the plan is for a half-million hippies to convene in the bottom of the Grand Canyon and I think it would make a hell of a color piece … sort of like the Angels’ funeral. I can get down there from here in my car and mix non-violently with the crowd, for good or ill. So if you run across anybody who’d like me to write them a few words on the action, let me know. I won’t count on hearing from you, but if you feel up to pushing this, give me a ring so I don’t get crossed up with my sales pitches. The only other person I’m thinking of contacting at the moment is Tom Wolfe, who called me the other clay and said he and some other people were going to launch New York as an independent magazine—which perhaps I might write for. So that sounds like a logical outlet for the Grand Canyon thing. Anyway, let me know if you have any ideas. I took my phone number with me, so the old Woody Creek number is still reliable. We’re all reliable out here in Woody Creek.
OK for now. I’d still like those “ten free books” if you can get around to handling it. Meanwhile, I’ll be working on The Rum Diary. The other non-fiction book is rapidly fading into the distance … although I do have a quick possibility which I’ll tell you about pretty soon. In light of Wolfe’s evaluation of my contract, the thing I have in mind just about fits the bill. Bingo.…
Hubert
RS.… if you see Lynn Nesbit,10 tell her I’m still alive and wondering if she is … although, given a choice right now, I think Selma has the action & I’ll let her handle things until somebody better shows up.
TO SCOTT MEREDITH:
Meredith was just one in a long line of literary agents who Thompson felt had bilked him.
May 19, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Scott Meredith
580 Fifth Ave.
New York City 36
Dear Scott:
This is to formalize a decision that I made quite a while ago, to wit: that I’d like to terminate our relationship as soon as possible. I know the contract says you can hold me until December 15 of this year—and I have enough money to hold out until then, if necessary (by that I mean I can go without writing anything more)—but in the interest of common sense and decency you can do us both a favor by cutting the cord amicably and at once.
I’ve given this thing a lot of thought and if you’re curious about reasons I think you can find most of them in various letters I’ve sent you. The main one, of course, is that I don’t believe you exist. I’ve said that pretty often before and maybe you thought I was kidding, but I wasn’t. I’ve never seen you or heard your voice even on the phone, and the only time I came to New York you were too busy to see me. As far as I’m concerned my “agents” in New York are a tribe of people, totally unknown to me, who for some reason are allowed to use your name. Every letter I get from your agency is signed by a different person … and the last one somehow cut me out of $1000 from the Ladies’ Home Journal, telling me I wouldn’t have enough time to do it when I’d all but finished the piece. Beyond that, I’d agreed to write the goddamn thing three days before your man got around to telling me about the offer.
Don’t bother to sen
d me another letter like that last one … telling me what a stupid, naive, ungrateful prick I am, because none of that has any real bearing on our relationship as writer and agent. I am probably worse than you think, as a person, but what the hell? When I get hungry for personal judgment on myself I’ll call for a priest.
As for the two-book contract Devaney arranged before quitting your agency, I have yet to run across anyone who doesn’t consider it a rotten contract. It is, in fact, a wretched, predatory document, and the fact that you seem to be the only person in New York who thinks it’s a good deal for me (according to your letter) is a main point in my decision to end our relationship.
Further, I have no intention of being bound by that contract and I’ve told Random House that I don’t want any more of their advances. This was something I was very anxious to deal with when I came to New York, but Devaney didn’t want any part of the argument and you weren’t available. I managed, on my own, to negotiate a better deal on the Hell’s Angels contract, despite the fact that you told me it couldn’t be done.
My only project for this summer and fall is The Rum Diary. I made this decision two weeks ago and noted it in the enclosed letter that I didn’t mail in the chaos of moving, sickness, deadlines, etc. All I want right now is a bit of peace and quiet: some days to write at night and bang around on my bike during the day. The Rum Diary will be finished sometime in the fall and I suppose, considering the terms of the contract, that you’ll want some kind of percentage on it. If you want anything beyond a token fee, however (for getting me into a contract that I have to break), I suggest you weigh the advantages of a small financial return against absolute certainty of a lifetime (mine) of bad advertisements.
Anyway, the point I mean to make about The Rum Diary is that it’s the only book that’s going to be delivered on that stinking contract … and if it weren’t already written, needing only a quick rewrite and a lot of cutting, I wouldn’t even deliver that. Maybe you’re right … that I really am a lucky low-life bastard to even be allowed to stand in line for the literary dole … and in that case you’d look a bit foolish hanging onto my coat-tails for ten percent. But do whatever you want, and by all means let me know … along with sending those checks (less your fee, of course, for the French and Brazilian rights). As for the Harper’s piece, I’m still working on it. That’s about it from this end. Fire at will. Sincerely.…
Hunter S. Thompson
TO TOM WOLFE:
May 24, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Tom.…
I’m back here in one of those square-shaped states, digging in for the duration of the crisis with an invalid, pregnant wife, a new bike and so many bouncing checks that not even a best-seller can pull me out. Hell’s Angels sales are tailing off at about 25,000, of which I got 10%. Not a hell of a lot of money for two years of my life, but I can think of worse ways to make a living. It beats the hell out of writing for the National Observer … we parted company over the Goldwater convention and the Berkeley FSM demonstrations. I don’t miss that gig at all.
It’s 4:00 here and I want to get this off before you move out for Da Nang or someplace like that. For christ’s sake take it easy over there; the whole war isn’t worth a rat’s ass, much less yours. I’m going to register next year, for the sole purpose of voting against Johnson, regardless of who runs against him. I won’t go into any life details until I’m sure I have the right address. Is this it?
Mine (the Owl Farm) is more or less permanent, but the Random House address is OK too. I have a novel to finish by the end of the summer and another non-fiction book that we haven’t figured out a subject for yet. If you have any solid ideas about these anti-social types you mentioned—like any good contacts in some specific area—let me know and I’ll ponder. Life in the Rockies is good, but I don’t want to go stale. Maybe I’ll see you in Vietnam; I’m trying to get Esquire to let me do a profile on [General William] Westmoreland. Send word on your movements, dates, etc.
Ciao,
Hunter
TO MR. SHENCK, EDITOR, RAMPARTS:
May 27, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Dear Mr. Shecnk [sic]:
Or however you spell your name—my apologies, of course, for not getting it right. Anyway, I wasn’t particularly bothered by the cheap, pompous and self-serving tone of your review of my book in Ramparts—but when you did it again on McBird I figured you were really looking for an argument with the people that you might, in some better world, have agreed with—so allow me to introduce myself as the man who’s going to take your head off at the first good opportunity. It will probably be a while and—oddly enough—I don’t feel any sense of personal animosity about it—but you strike me as a bellowing, greedy phony—in the same discount league with Tim Leary and Alan Watts—and that automatically makes you fair game.
Again—nothing personal. But since you persist in your old-womanish view of almost everything—and especially because of your obvious lack of decency, graciousness and humanity—which translates as a common form of cheap meanness—I can’t avoid the obligation to deal with you … the Dean Rusk of the underground. I look forward to reviewing your next book.
Sincerely.…
Hunter S. Thompson
FROM CHARLES KURALT:
June 1, 1967
New York
Dear Hunter,
The $110 I’d rather just let hang there. Of course it was my money, but I don’t need it. I need a hell of a lot more than that because the IRS just counted up all the days I was in the country in 1960–1963 when I told them I wasn’t in the country at all. As for this specific $110 I would rather drink it up all at once with you some night, or at least carry in the back of my mind the promise of same.
The book is good, really good. I read it at a sitting, and read the best parts again. You write damned well, which I guess I knew all along but of course I’ve never had a chance to read extended Thompson before, and it really pleased me. The notices I’ve seen were all great, the ads were big and imposing, and withal, a succès d’estime, and I hope as big a success financially.
I am so late in replying because I have been covering an expedition to the North Pole, 40 below, frozen beard, muskox stew, the whole thing. Two months of it and I just got back. Came back through San Francisco and thought to call you, only to realize I couldn’t remember the street or your phone number, and on thinking about it decided in your literary success you’d probably forsaken that Chinaman anyway. Owl Farm, very well. I may come see you … there or in California. As soon as we finish editing The White Hell or whatever we end up calling it, I’m going to do a tour around the country doing rural stories for Cronkite in a kind of Travels with Charley vein, only Charley, come to think of it, was a dog. Anyway, I should like very much to have an evening together. I have thought of a lot of things to tell you over the months, and I want to hear about your confrontation with the Publishing World. I had occasion to say Hunter Thompson, Hell’s Angels on the radio before I left for the Arctic, by the way, so consider Selma Shapiro repaid for her two copies, East Coast and West Coast editions.
I think it is nice that Sandy is pregnant. Petie, who has always been one of your champions (against the Los Angeles Times cabal as I recall) and who also liked the book, says hello.
As ever,
Charles
TO DON ERIKSON, ESQUIRE:
June 5, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado
Don Erikson
Esquire
488 Madison Ave.
NYC 22
Dear Don:
Here’s another quick idea, and if somebody else has already done it I plead ignorance. I was thinking of a piece on the Reagan-Kuchel split in California, but I just read a Chicago Daily News piece saying Reagan is going to call his dogs off Kuchel in 1968 so he can face the GOP convention as the “man who restored unity to California Republicanism.” This would preclude a vicious primary fight for Kuchel’s Senate seat.
<
br /> So I sort of lost interest in that one … until, way down in the story, I saw where Kuchel’s 1968 campaign is being handled by Spencer-Roberts—the same L.A. public relations firm that handled Reagan in 1966 and Rocky [Nelson Rockefeller] in the crucial 1964 primary. And it occurred to me that maybe Spencer-Roberts might make an interesting article, for you or somebody else. Think about that.
This is obviously a high-powered outfit; its operations influence national politics on the highest level—and the only time they get any press is a few weeks out of every election year. Who are they? What are they up to? And why? And what are the implications of a super-successful Public (political) Relations firm?
Anyway, it looks like a good seed. What do you think? I’m not offering it to you, just casting around for interest, bids, rejections, etc. I see it as a piece for about January 1968, so there’s no hurry in getting on it. But if you like the idea, let me know and we can talk seriously about it. I haven’t mentioned it to anyone else (editors), and I probably won’t for ten days or so, because I’m scrambling desperately to finish a long-overdue Harper’s piece. I sprained my wrist about two days ago and today I nearly tore my leg off trying to ski down a mountain on a motorcycle. Beyond that my wife has become an invalid and my lawyer flipped his wig on the coast and came out here to avoid being committed, causing me no end of trouble.
Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967 Page 78