Hunter S. Thompson killed himself a year ago today. I was disappointed and crushed and went to a bar soon after I heard the news that evening. I drank whisky and came to understand why he did it. He'd been an outsized literary hero (an all-too rare thing in America), a journalist who changed journalism, a comic genius with a pen and a very shrewd observer of human character. And, then, he wasn't anymore. By the late-1990s, HST had become a hack. He had been a huge influence on me when I was young--for me, he's right up there with Hemingway, Rilke, Carver, Rimbaud and Henry Miller. A crazy motherfucker who was seriously after the truth and intent on finding it on his own terms and sending energy off in 16 directions at once. He was also funnier than all those other writers put together.
But something died in Hunter years before he put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. He'd stopped doing any truly original work and pumped out an occasional column for ESPN.com. This was not pleasant to watch. His letters and assorted writings came out in various collections. He still did crazy shit with guns and drugs that got him into the news. But he was done as Dr. Thompson and he knew it. The guy who'd once shouted "I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me" was quickly becoming a dried-up old man. To go from large gifts to utter literary silence had to be too much.
His suicide is one of the few perfectly rational acts (there is evidence that he planned the business) of self-destruction that I know of. It was like he'd earned the right to off himself. As a pal of his put it:
"He told me 25 years ago that he would feel real trapped if he didn't know that he could commit suicide at any moment. I don't know if that is brave or stupid or what, but it was inevitable. I think that the truth of what rings through all his writing is that he meant what he said. If that is entertainment to you, well, that's OK. If you think that it enlightened you, well, that's even better. If you wonder if he's gone to Heaven or Hell--rest assured he will check out them both, find out which one Richard Milhous Nixon went to--and go there. He could never stand being bored."
He bought the ticket, he took the ride. Mahalo, buddy. Have fun with Nixon.
