Hunter S. Thompson was a human being until he wrote himself into a hero myth. It’s not that he wasn’t a great writer, he certainly was. His problem was living some thin fucking bullshit persona until the popularity of that lie killed him.
Thompson surrounded himself with sycophantic admirers and in going after “bastards” became increasingly like those “bastards” until his end. The man got complacent, and died as a fucking self-absorbed tragic cartoon on a neverending quest for women and fame.
Although an American icon for bad journalism, Thompson left a hateful trail of idiosyncratic beliefs that haven’t aged very well. In the audio commentary for Fear And Loathing, Thompson continually lets out screams from snorting Amyls as he spews homophobia. I’m sure he thought it was very funny at the time, and shit, he was the king of funny! The decider! In the documentary Breakfast with Hunter, the coot bedevils Fear and Loathing writers, chasing them from his “compound” because they wanted to turn his cartoon story into a cartoon. There is nothing more pathetic than an angry old cartoon persona crank raging out over the despoliation of his sacred work. At least the geezer had the balls to do it himself.
I’ve only read a single book by Thompson, or more accurately, I’ve only listened to the audiobook of Fear and Loathing because everyone made a big fuss about him being some kind of godlike writer. I laughed some, and was forced to watch all the documentaries, but in the end he was just another drugged out self-mythologizing lunatic on a power trip from hell.
Fuck Hunter S. Thompson. I’m glad he’s dead.