Hunter S. Thompson died yesterday.
Apparently it was suicide, a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Thompson himself would probably cry conspiracy.
If I were to draw up a list of the top five authors who have influnced my writing, he would be on it. If I were to draw up a list of the top five authors who have influence my life. He would be on it.
His best known work, of course, was Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. As seminal a book as that was, I was far more changed by his first written novel: The Rum Diaries and his first published novel: Hell's Angels.
For in them both Thompson put forward a new kind of journalism (called now New Journalism; Thompson preferred Gonzo Journalism) in which the writer is integerally part of the events he or she writes about.
And how could it be any other way? I worked for nearly four years as a journalist and any piece that didn't require a side wasn't worth writing about, and any piece that did require a side could never be objective. It's a lie to keep the journalist out of the journalism, for then people believe the facts printed in an inch wide column instead of understanding how selective--concious or unconcious--those facts are. And often, unsubstantiated.
No, far better to be in the story, let the reader know that they are getting an issue filtered through someone.
But Thompson was more than the way he influenced journalism. It was what less what he wrote about than his attitude toward life that won him acclaim. He said what he thought, no matter the consequences.
He was fearless. Suicidally fearless. It was his writings about riding with a Hell's Angel gang (and, ultimately, being beaten by them and left for dead), his writings about being a stringer in Puerto Rico, stealing rum from press conventions and seducing a woman thought it probably meant his life (and, ultimately, getting beaten by a gang of Puerto Ricans and left for dead) that made me go--at my impressionble young age--"this is it! This is life! In the thick of a story worth telling and then living to tell it! This is how it must be done!"
And any who know me know how much that sentiment drives me to this day.
There is a line; there is a limit. After I got mugged, sitting in my room and staring at a wall, I wondered how much longer I had until I hit it. Was I pushing it too far? When would there come a story that I wouldn't live to tell? Did I--and I had this thought, recollecting The Rum Diaries--want to be beaten to within an inch of my life and left for dead? Or more? Is that why I did things like walk home alone at 3:00 in the morning in Ukraine? Jumped off of buildings? Raced 120 MPH down desert roads?
Because I had wanted to be fearless like Thompson: suicidally fearless.
But the end did come for Thompson. He found his line; his limit. But he touched the world. Journalism will never be the same because of him. Part of a generation saw themselves in his words. And part of a new generation grew up with them, was influenced by them, myself included. It's entirely likely that without Thompson I would never have come to Ukraine, because he and others planted a need in me for an other-than-ordinary life.
The man was crazy, no doubt, but that was part of his appeal. I was not surprised to learn that he killed himself, although I was sad. I don't know if he was a good man, but he will be missed, and he will be remembered, and that, I'm sure, was enough for him.
Rest in peace, Hunter. Rest in peace. I, for one, will miss you.