“I don’t advocate drugs and whiskey and violence and rock and roll, but they’ve always been good to me.”
The quip above, written by Hunter S. Thompson for Playboy
shortly before his death in 2005, captures what many readers best knew
him for and still remember. Beginning with the publication of Hell’s Angels in 1966, rising with “The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved” in 1970 and reaching its zenith in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,
the second part of which was published by Rolling Stone 43 years ago
this month, Thompson forged a lasting persona for himself as an outlaw
journalist. It was astonishingly successful — his books, film
adaptations and general cultural influence are all testaments to that —
but it came largely at the expense of his first love: novel-writing.
Although
readers today associate Thompson most with his drug-and-booze-fueled
antics, he was in fact a committed literary stylist, especially early
on. As a child growing up in Louisville in the ‘50s, he would type out
his favorite novels, particularly The Great Gatsby and The Sun Also Rises,
over and over again to get a feel for the words. This aspiration,
melded with his initially frustrated writing career, made Thompson a
harsh literary critic, if not a bit of a dick. An example:
“I have tonight begun reading a stupid, shitty book by Kerouac called Big Sur,
and I would give a ball to wake up tomorrow on some empty ridge with a
herd of beatniks grazing in the clearing about 200 yards below the
house. And then to squat with the big boomer and feel it on my shoulder
with the smell of grease and powder and, later, a little blood.”
That
comes from a letter by Thompson to a friend in 1962. Throughout his
personal correspondence (published during his lifetime in two volumes,)
Thompson digs into contemporary writers and classics with his trademark
venom, but he also occasionally recommends a book to an acquaintance —
and then he gushes.
These are a few of the reads Thompson recommended before Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, before he had become an outlaw journalist, back when he was just a desperate Southern gentleman:
Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell
To Knopf Editor Angus Cameron:
“Fiction
is a bridge to the truth that journalism can’t reach. Facts are lies
when they’re added up, and the only kind of journalism I can pay much
attention to is something like Down and Out in Paris and London. …But
in order to write that kind of punch-out stuff you have to add up the
facts in your own fuzzy way, and to hell with the hired swine who use
adding machines.”
The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand
To high school friend Joe Bell:
“To say what I thought of The Fountainhead would
take me more pages than I like to think I’d stoop to boring someone
with. I think it’s enough to say that I think it’s everything you said
it was and more. Naturally, I intend to read Atlas Shrugged. If it’s half as good as Rand’s first effort, I won’t be disappointed.”
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
To Knopf Editor Angus Cameron:
“If
history professors in this country had any sense they would tout the
book as a capsule cram course in the American Dream. I think it is the
most American novel ever written. I remember coming across it in a
bookstore in Rio de Janeiro; the title in Portuguese was O Grande Gatsby,
and it was a fantastic thing to read it in that weird language and know
that futility of the translation. If Fitzgerald had been a Brazilian
he’d have had that country dancing to words instead of music.”
The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby by Tom Wolfe
To the author, Wolfe:
“I owe the National Observer
in Washington a bit of money for stories paid and never written while I
was working for them out here, and the way we decided I’d work it off
was book reviews, of my own choosing. Yours was one; they sent it to me
and I wrote this review, which they won’t print. I called the editor
(the kulture [SIC] editor) the other day from the middle of a Hell’s
Angels rally at Bass lake and he said he was sorry and he agreed with me
etc. but that there was a “feeling” around the office about giving you a
good review. … Anyway, here’s the review, and if it does you any good
in the head to know that it caused the final severance of relations
between myself and the Observer, then at least it will do
somebody some good. As for myself I am joining the Hell’s Angels and
figure I should have done it six years ago.”
Lie Down in Darkness by William Styron
To Viking Editor Robert D. Ballou:
“Last week I read two fairly recent first novels — Acrobat Admits (Harold Grossman), and After Long Silence (Robert Gutwillig) — and saw enough mistakes to make me look long and hard at mine [Prince Jellyfish].
Although I’m already sure the Thompson effort will be better than those
two, I’m looking forward to the day that I can say it will be better
than Lie Down in Darkness. When that day comes, I will put my manuscript in a box and send it to you.”
The Outsider by Colin Wilson
To his mother, Virginia Thompson:
“As a parting note — I suggest that you get hold of a book called The Outsider by
Colin Wilson. I had intended to go into a detailed explanation of what I
have found out about myself in the past year or so, but find that I am
too tired. However, after reading that book, you may come closer to
understanding just what lies ahead for your Hunter-named son. I had just
begun to doubt some of my strongest convictions when I stumbled upon
that book. But rather than being wrong, I think that I just don’t
express my rightness correctly.”
Singular Man by J. P. Donleavy
To freelance journalist Lionel Olay:
“Now that you’ve taken personal journalism about as far as it can go, why don’t you read Singular Man and
then get back to the real work? … I’m not dumping on you, old sport —
just giving the needle. I just wish to shit I had somebody within 500
miles capable of giving me one. It took Donleavy’s book to make me see
what a fog I’ve been in.”
The World of Sex by Henry Miller
To Norman Mailer in 1961:
“This
little black book of Miller’s is something you might like. If not, or
if you already have it, by all means send it back. I don’t mind giving
it away, but I’d hate to see it wasted.”
To Mailer in ‘65:
“Somewhere in late 1961 or so I sent you a grey, paperbound copy of Henry Miller’s The World of Sex,
one of 1000 copies printed “for friends of Henry Miller,” in 1941. You
never acknowledged it, which didn’t show much in the way of what
California people call “class,” but which was understandable in that I
recall issuing some physical threats along with the presentation of what
they now tell me is a collector’s item. … And so be it. I hope you have
the book and are guarding it closely. In your old age you can sell it
for whatever currency is in use at the time.”
For more reading recommendations from the good doctor, check out both his collections of letters: The Proud Highway and Fear and Loathing in America.
Sem comentários:
Enviar um comentário