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Freak Kingdom: Hunter S. Thompson's Manic Ten-Year Crusade Against American Fascism
The story of Hunter S. Thompson's crusade against Richard Nixon and the threat of fascism in America--and the devastating price he paid for it Hunter S. Thompson is often misremembered as a wise-cracking, drug-addled cartoon character. This book reclaims him for what he truly a fearless opponent of corruption and fascism, one who sacrificed his future well-being to fight against it, rewriting the rules of journalism and political satire in the process. This skillfully told and dramatic story shows how Thompson saw through Richard Nixon's treacherous populism and embarked on a life-defining campaign to stop it. In his fevered effort to expose institutional injustice, Thompson pushed himself far beyond his natural limits, sustained by drugs, mania, and little else. For ten years, he cast aside his old ambitions, troubled his family, and likely hastened his own decline, along the way producing some of the best political writing in our history. This timely biography recalls a period of anger and derangement in American politics, and one writer with the guts to tell the truth.
398 pages, Kindle Edition
First published October 30, 2018
107 people are currently reading
1277 people want to read
About the author
Timothy Denevi
2 books42 followersTimothy Denevi is the author of Freak Kingdom (2018), a biography of Hunter S. Thompson’s political career, and Hyper (2014), a memoir and cultural history of ADHD. His essays can be found online in The Atlantic, New York, Salon, Time, and Literary Hub, where he writes about politics.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 94 reviews
January 17, 2019
By 1974, Hunter S. Thompson was a spent husk. During the first decade of his career he had risen to fame -- if not fortune; had already written his best books, done his most probing and passionate reporting, invented a new style of "gonzo" journalism in which the truth didn't always have to do with objective fact but with the revealing of its essence, and, perhaps most importantly for the story of this book, arrived at a place where he could witness the downfall of the man who -- in his time and according to him -- most represented the ugly face of American fascism, Richard Nixon.
As Nixon prepared to board his helicopter for his last flight from the White House, all of America's press was in Washington to see it; all except the one journalist who most vociferously decried his rise to and achievement of power -- Thompson, who at that point was lounging in a pool thousands of miles away in California, watching the collapse on a portable TV. Thompson was literally adrift, giving no shits and missing one of the countless deadlines he so often would heretofore. Drugs, exhaustion, family strife, and the unending financial woes that dogged him despite critical acclaim for his work all helped contribute to the collapse of Thompson's work ethic and clarity of vision.
But, perhaps more deeply, as this book seems to posit, the sheer weight of carrying through life an idealistic optimism that was never rewarded because of the relentlessly horrible reality of the world had finally defeated the author. Nixon's departure was no time for celebration. The political structures, the dirty backroom deals, the cynical manipulations and disinformation campaigns that kept the public dumb and jingoistic and forever yoked to a system designed to hamper their upward mobility and welfare were still all too well entrenched -- and, as we see today, have worsened beyond even what Thompson could have imagined at the time. In the face of the soul-crushing nature of American politics, with public problems festering and seemingly or willfully insoluble -- ignored or mischaracterized by vested interests while those who pinpoint them and demand sensible solutions are demonized -- Thompson morphed from a Shakespearean fool shouting his acid critiques in humorous prose into a straight-up caricature. It turned out to be more lucrative for him that way. But it was a Faustian kind of deal; it also made him less believable and dismissible.
Before I say any more, let's get right to the point: Timothy Denevi has written a magnificent book, and written it in an elegiac, meltingly beautiful way. If the rather clunky title oversells the theme a bit, it can be forgiven. Large swaths of the book cover biographical details of Thompson's life already familiar to the writer's devotees, but even here the similarities to other HST biographies disappears. This isn't just another chronological account of Thompson as merely a colorful and eccentric instigator of antics, but a genuine attempt to understand the ideals that motivated his most passionate work.
Denevi clearly regards Thompson as a hero, but makes the case not by repeating the man's comical exploits and legendary alpha-male badassery; rather, by showing him to be a man of principle and concern -- digging inside his psyche to understand the beliefs and philosophy that moved him; by getting at the things that drew him and appalled him, and explaining how those things drove his artistry, and his impetus to set down our times, and his, for the judgment of posterity. It's a first-class book about the creative process, about the lows and highs, the writer's block, the fear of failing to communicate, the feeling of being the outcast; the messenger crying out ineffectually to people who might not be listening because they're too figuratively deaf or too far gone. It is about the eternal struggle of the artist to create, not only despite the vicissitudes of a hostile world, but despite the contradictory and self-destructive impulses within himself. After writing Hell's Angels, Thompson came to a realization that a writer's voice could not come merely by riding along the thin edge between safety and the unknown, but by taking the plunge over the cliff. It became the core of his art, and his life, for better or worse, for the rest of his days.
This book is a recasting, a remastering and shiny new 180-gram vinyl reissue of Thompson's life that blows the stink off what's come before, and for that it's welcome and tremendously well done.
It's also about, as the title suggests, Thompson's hatred for the fascist strain in American life and its deep permeation into all facets and levels of society and how he, with his pen and political involvement tried -- perhaps naively despite his intelligence -- to do something about it. Thompson's early career spanned the death of John and Robert Kennedy and the downfall of George McGovern -- all men who he believed could reverse or slow the country's progressive rot, as well as the rise of contemporary conservatism with its fascist appeals. Denevi's accounts of Thompson's encounters at the 1964, 1968 and 1972 campaigns and political conventions -- particularly relating to Goldwater's and Nixon's corrosive police-state philosophies -- become themes throughout the book that animated Thompson's anger and his willingness to fight and speak out.
The book is first-rate, and highly recommended.
-kr/eg '19
As Nixon prepared to board his helicopter for his last flight from the White House, all of America's press was in Washington to see it; all except the one journalist who most vociferously decried his rise to and achievement of power -- Thompson, who at that point was lounging in a pool thousands of miles away in California, watching the collapse on a portable TV. Thompson was literally adrift, giving no shits and missing one of the countless deadlines he so often would heretofore. Drugs, exhaustion, family strife, and the unending financial woes that dogged him despite critical acclaim for his work all helped contribute to the collapse of Thompson's work ethic and clarity of vision.
But, perhaps more deeply, as this book seems to posit, the sheer weight of carrying through life an idealistic optimism that was never rewarded because of the relentlessly horrible reality of the world had finally defeated the author. Nixon's departure was no time for celebration. The political structures, the dirty backroom deals, the cynical manipulations and disinformation campaigns that kept the public dumb and jingoistic and forever yoked to a system designed to hamper their upward mobility and welfare were still all too well entrenched -- and, as we see today, have worsened beyond even what Thompson could have imagined at the time. In the face of the soul-crushing nature of American politics, with public problems festering and seemingly or willfully insoluble -- ignored or mischaracterized by vested interests while those who pinpoint them and demand sensible solutions are demonized -- Thompson morphed from a Shakespearean fool shouting his acid critiques in humorous prose into a straight-up caricature. It turned out to be more lucrative for him that way. But it was a Faustian kind of deal; it also made him less believable and dismissible.
Before I say any more, let's get right to the point: Timothy Denevi has written a magnificent book, and written it in an elegiac, meltingly beautiful way. If the rather clunky title oversells the theme a bit, it can be forgiven. Large swaths of the book cover biographical details of Thompson's life already familiar to the writer's devotees, but even here the similarities to other HST biographies disappears. This isn't just another chronological account of Thompson as merely a colorful and eccentric instigator of antics, but a genuine attempt to understand the ideals that motivated his most passionate work.
Denevi clearly regards Thompson as a hero, but makes the case not by repeating the man's comical exploits and legendary alpha-male badassery; rather, by showing him to be a man of principle and concern -- digging inside his psyche to understand the beliefs and philosophy that moved him; by getting at the things that drew him and appalled him, and explaining how those things drove his artistry, and his impetus to set down our times, and his, for the judgment of posterity. It's a first-class book about the creative process, about the lows and highs, the writer's block, the fear of failing to communicate, the feeling of being the outcast; the messenger crying out ineffectually to people who might not be listening because they're too figuratively deaf or too far gone. It is about the eternal struggle of the artist to create, not only despite the vicissitudes of a hostile world, but despite the contradictory and self-destructive impulses within himself. After writing Hell's Angels, Thompson came to a realization that a writer's voice could not come merely by riding along the thin edge between safety and the unknown, but by taking the plunge over the cliff. It became the core of his art, and his life, for better or worse, for the rest of his days.
This book is a recasting, a remastering and shiny new 180-gram vinyl reissue of Thompson's life that blows the stink off what's come before, and for that it's welcome and tremendously well done.
It's also about, as the title suggests, Thompson's hatred for the fascist strain in American life and its deep permeation into all facets and levels of society and how he, with his pen and political involvement tried -- perhaps naively despite his intelligence -- to do something about it. Thompson's early career spanned the death of John and Robert Kennedy and the downfall of George McGovern -- all men who he believed could reverse or slow the country's progressive rot, as well as the rise of contemporary conservatism with its fascist appeals. Denevi's accounts of Thompson's encounters at the 1964, 1968 and 1972 campaigns and political conventions -- particularly relating to Goldwater's and Nixon's corrosive police-state philosophies -- become themes throughout the book that animated Thompson's anger and his willingness to fight and speak out.
The book is first-rate, and highly recommended.
-kr/eg '19
February 3, 2019
Not sure why this tome is generating so much GoodReads love. Hunter S. Thompson lived an action-packed life and fearlessly wrote about all of it in scorching prose that inspired generations of literary outlaws, so why would you need a collection of bland, academic-sounding summaries of those very same articles and exploits? Every time Denevi included an actual Thompson excerpt, I wanted to chuck this and go back to the original works.
How do I feel about Thompson in general? Well, it's complicated. Ten years ago, I wrestled with it in 2900 words for EightMillionStories.com. That site went dark years ago, so here 'tis again:
WHAT HUNTER S. THOMPSON COULD AND COULDN'T DO
by Jon Zelazny
I came of age in Ronald Reagan’s America. My parents were Eisenhower-style Republicans, and we lived in a solidly middle class Republican town, in a cultured, but conservative provincial suburb. My parents were happily married, as were the parents of all my friends. Our white-collar dads came home for dinner every night, most of our moms were homemakers who eventually reentered the workforce. My public schools and our church were full of adults who were all pretty much like my parents.
Were there rebels in our town? It’s hard to say. There were teenage hoods, easily identified by their black tee shirts and jean jackets with the logos of heavy metal bands stenciled on the back, but they didn’t strike me as thwarted idealists, just kids who weren’t into school and liked to party. We also had a scattering of artsy-poet-drama types, musicians, and brainy oddballs, but I can’t remember anyone pushing the idea that the authority figures in our lives were human scum who deserved to be subverted and scorned. I certainly had no inclination to rebel against anything or anyone.
Yet I was drawn to a pantheon of ne’er-do-well characters from my favorite movies: Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, and Jack Nicholson in EASY RIDER, Donald Sutherland and Elliot Gould in MASH, Gene Hackman in THE FRENCH CONNECTION, Warren Beatty and Hackman in BONNIE & CLYDE, and Malcolm McDowell in A CLOCKWORK ORANGE. My favorite actor was Jack Nicholson: not the paunchy, middle-aged ham of TERMS OF ENDEARMENT and HEARTBURN, but the smart-ass firecracker of early ‘70’s classics like FIVE EASY PIECES, CARNAL KNOWLEDGE, THE LAST DETAIL, CHINATOWN, and CUCKOO’S NEST.
Unlike my town’s metalheads, most of these characters didn’t enjoy the luxury of social apartness. They were adults, stuck in the real world, who had to continually fight like tigers to maintain their dynamic, individualistic personalities against stifling surroundings, and the humorless, uninspiring authority figures who happened to be in charge of Army hospitals, police stations, small town cafes, or mental health facilities. These dramas struck a heavy chord in me: nothing seemed as admirable as the indomitable will of a crazy, funny person trying to live and work on their own terms.
To such a teenage mindset, the ethos of Hunter S. Thompson fit like a glove. I first read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas when I was sixteen, and was enthralled by the idea of a gainfully employed adult who viewed the world as a grotesque playground run by and predominantly filled with witless, stupid nobodies, and that the Very Hip-- Those Who Clearly Saw What the Deal Was-- were socially bound to judge and condemn the “straight world,” and have a king-hell time while doing it.
Las Vegas had only been published thirteen years before, but the America Thompson feared and loathed seemed like it was from another century, or even another planet. After Las Vegas, I quickly devoured Thompson’s other four books, Hell’s Angels, Campaign Trail ’72, The Great Shark Hunt, and The Curse of Lono. Collectively, his books became my secret social history of America from 1963 and 1977, a shattering evocation of thoughts and feelings that totally flew in the face of my day-to-day reality. (Lono was the only misfire: a gorgeous showcase for illustrator Ralph Steadman, but Thompson’s scattershot text regarding Hawaii was, and remains, almost instantly forgettable.)
I was so enamored, I wrote blatantly Thompson-esque articles for my high school newspaper, writing as though I too were a globetrotting, trouble-prone, hard-partying professional journalist. (I’d love to say I really set my classmates’ hair on fire, but I don’t think anyone actually read them.) And as the Reagan glow waned, Thompson’s vision of The Truth seemed increasingly apropos to current events: I had registered Republican when I turned 18, but within two years, Iran-Contra killed my faith in the party, and I soon resigned.
I was nearly out of college when Thompson’s next book appeared, but sadly, Generation of Swine was a rag bag of lesser commentary, and the maestro was irrevocably slipping. Ever the optimist, I was sure he had at least one more masterpiece percolating somewhere, that like the Dylan of '97, Hunter Thompson too would suddenly burst forth afresh, as intuitive and insightful for a new generation as he’d once been for his own, but he never published anything again that made the slightest impact on me. Only his 2005 suicide and funeral would evoke the pathos, humor, bombast, and social commentary of his best writing.
So it was bittersweet watching Alex Gibney’s new documentary, GONZO: THE LIFE AND WORK OF DR. HUNTER S. THOMPSON, which opens with the revelation that Thompson was equally disappointed by the decline of his later work. As one might expect, Gibney provides plenty of celebration of the man’s bad craziness, but there’s a surprising amount of tough criticism: Jann Wenner can only think of three great articles Thompson wrote after 1977, Gary Hart calls his political outlook “childish,” and his first wife obliquely deems his suicide an act of cowardice.
Why did Thompson’s intellect and output burn so brightly for about a decade, then fall into such irrelevance? GONZO highlights the paradox that even as Thompson relentlessly pursued fame, his three greatest long-form works—Hell’s Angels, Las Vegas, and Campaign Trail ’72—could only have been written by a non-celebrity. In all three, Thompson presents himself as a Wise Fool offering a guided tour of isolated worlds. He profiles the people, details behavior and social custom, and offers pointed judgments at every turn. Thompson truly embedded himself in these situations, and the people he met to become so used to his presence that they behaved naturally around him. Once he became an infamous public personality however, such infiltration was no longer possible. Thompson summarizes the dilemma when he describes attending a function with Jimmy Carter during the 1976 presidential campaign, and how embarrassed he was when people were more interested in him than the candidate.
Fame (and it's excesses) were certainly reasons Thompson didn’t write further social studies to stand with his classic trio, but that doesn’t really answer the more important, and strangely unasked question: once comfortably established as an author, why couldn’t Thompson evolve from journalism and commentary into literary fiction?
Consider Tom Wolfe, his most notable New Journalism peer: following the stratospheric success of the nonfiction The Right Stuff, Wolfe stopped accepting assignments, and settled in for the better part of the eighties to write the epic New York novel he’d been dreaming of for twenty years. The result, The Bonfire of the Vanities, was a hell of a novel, and a quantum leap from Wolfe’s highly regarded journalism. His subsequent novels, A Man in Full and I Am Charlotte Simmons, while not as strong, are still insightful, technically dazzling, and never less than wholly entertaining.
As a young man, Thompson likewise aspired to be a great American novelist, frequently citing his admiration of heavyweights like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Joseph Conrad. In GONZO, someone repeats the anecdote that Thompson once retyped The Great Gatsby in order to absorb Fitzgerald’s “literary rhythm.” When I first heard that years ago, I thought, “Wow, Thompson copied Fitzgerald, and I copied Thompson!” But it isn’t really true: while I aped my hero’s style and persona, those stories I wrote for my high school paper were my own. It wouldn't have occurred to me to retype Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and at this point in my life, I think the idea that you could learn anything about writing by retyping a famous book is stupid.
A number of people in GONZO praise Thompson for his imagination, but the film ultimately revealed the opposite to me: that Hunter S. Thompson’s greatest failure as a writer was that he possessed almost no imagination whatsoever.
Retyping Fitzgerald aside, can you think of any other best-selling author whose body of work was assigned articles? (I consider Las Vegas one of my favorite novels, but it really wasn’t: it too was a magazine assignment.) Thompson’s friends and family admit his later books of repackaged old material and letters were put out simply to make money, so where are all the short stories, outlines for novels, and assorted scraps of fiction one would expect to find in the dusty storage bins of any famous writer? How is it possible a man who worshipped Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Conrad didn’t leave behind even one short story from his youth? And if didn’t write any then, why not later?
Part of the answer can be found in his second novel, The Rum Diary, which Thompson completed when he was 22, but only published forty years later. (His first novel remains unpublished.) Both were autobiographical stories, with The Rum Diary based on Thompson’s experiences as a journalist in Puerto Rico circa '59. It’s competent, but uninspired, witless, and dull. Did this early failure forever hobble Thompson's confidence in his abilities? If so, he was a coward and fool. How could he not have understood that great novelists spend years honing their craft? Did he set himself such impossibly high standards for fiction that they became his lifelong excuse for not even trying?
Surveying the breadth of his work today, I’m most struck by Thompson’s narrowness. All he was ever able to write about were his own thoughts and feelings, and describe things he had observed firsthand. Yet even as he was drawn to all kinds of human excitement, he clearly lacked the crucial traits of curiosity and empathy a good writer needs to imagine what other people are thinking or feeling. You can feel him trying in some of his sixties articles, and in Hell’s Angels, but as his gonzo persona began to solidify, his interest and willingness to wrestle with the beguiling complexities of human relations was rapidly ebbing.
Instead, he just started making up funny shit, then honed his knee jerk assumptions into well crafted, but outrageous fantasies. If he observed people acting in a strange manner, he generally chalked it up to drug use. It's pretty funny in Las Vegas: two guys on an epic drug binge accusing everybody else of being on drugs. It’s not quite as funny in Campaign Trail ’72 when Thompson claims veteran newsman John Chancellor did acid, or spins a fantasy of troubled Democrat Ed Muskie abusing a drug called ibogaine, a false story that was picked up by other reporters and damaged the candidate’s reputation. Why did Thompson make such an obnoxious choice? What kind of person couldn’t offer a glimmer of sympathy for a candidate floundering under intense pressure? What the ibogaine story demonstrates to me is Thompson’s ever-growing emotional disconnection.
The price his work ultimately paid for this defect was its crushing lack of subtlety. His view of humanity WAS childish: the vast majority of people he encounters are denounced as treacherous greedheads, while occasional exceptions like George McGovern, Muhammad Ali, or Jimmy Carter are venerated as Honest, Decent, Openhearted, and Fair-minded.
No “character” better illustrates Thompson’s method of “typecasting” than Richard Nixon. It’s generally noted the 37th President held the quintessential master villain role in Thompson’s worldview, and once he resigned, Thompson was left without a comparable public figure to focus his contempt on. I too considered Thompson’s Nixon articles the most powerful work of his career… until Oliver Stone released his biopic NIXON in 1995.
Stone and Thompson are sixties rebels cut from the same cloth (with Stone’s SALVADOR a better Thompson homage than Terry Gilliam’s FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS), and one can easily assume Stone harbored tremendously bad feelings about Nixon throughout his life, but the compassion and empathy he mustered as a middle-aged man to tell NIXON is nothing short of astounding. Stone depicts a nervous little boy who grows up to be an insecure political animal, and shows how the little things that ate away Nixon’s good qualities eventually left a damaged and dangerous man at the helm of the most powerful country in the world. You can debate the film's facts and interpretations, but firebrand Stone's quietest movie ever is a profound and nuanced meditation on the confluence of person, persona, and power. Thompson could only make you fear and loathe a monster, but Stone makes you weep for a man. Is there any doubt which task required the greater imagination?
I also think Thompson had nowhere to go as a writer after Watergate because he had long ago dispensed with the actual ethos of journalism, replacing them solely with his own personality. He had no capacity to create original characters and stories, and lacked the interest or discipline to channel his creative skills into new forms. When collected newspaper editorials began appearing in the nineties, it was immediately apparent his best stories were the ones he physically participated in. As a mere commentator-- watching CNN for cues, issuing barky screeds from his home in rural Colorado-- his thoughts were no more or less interesting and insightful than those offered by hundreds of other career journalists penning opinion columns.
I'd further posit that after his youthful dreams of literary success died, what Hunter Thompson most feared and loathed was writing itself. He sure bitched about it enough, and GONZO again offers that photo of him taking a bead at his typewriter with a .44 Magnum. If true, it suggests an arc even more tragic than Nixon’s: A failed novelist becomes a journalist because he has no other talents, abilities, or inclinations. He treats his profession with increasing contempt, his work gets sloppier, until, miraculously, his rebelliousness strikes a chord with a generation in turmoil, and thus he achieves a fame beyond his wildest dreams… only his astounding success further cements him to the profession he’s long despised. He still can’t bring himself to attempt the kind of writing he once loved, and can’t think of anything else to do, so he adopts the persona of a professional party animal… until he gets old, and can’t even do that as well as he used to, so he shoots himself in the head.
I used to love hearing what a wild and crazy guy Thompson was, but the more the stories are told in GONZO, the less enamored I became. Was he really that much fun to be around? Maybe for a short visit, or if your idea of a great time is to get loaded, talk a lot of shit, and shoot off some guns. Thompson was a hoodlum in the fifties, and probably would’ve been a metalhead if he grew up in my town thirty years later. I’m pretty sure those guys thought I was a dipshit in high school, so I can’t imagine I would have impressed my old literary outlaw icon either. But that’s okay. I love action, drama, neurosis, violence, profanity, bad behavior, and outrageous humor—but only in books, movies, music, and my own writing. My actual life is quiet and peaceful, and I wouldn’t want it otherwise, or even pretend it was otherwise for the purpose of sustaining a cult of personality, because I’ve thought a lot about the dichotomy between person and persona, and I think people who confuse the two often end up in a giant stew of psychic trauma.
I owe Hunter S. Thompson immeasurably. His work has been an enduring influence on my own. But his work is still here, right there on my shelf when I need a jolt of inspiration or a good laugh. As for the man himself—who he was, what he did, and how he lived—I really don’t give a shit anymore.
How do I feel about Thompson in general? Well, it's complicated. Ten years ago, I wrestled with it in 2900 words for EightMillionStories.com. That site went dark years ago, so here 'tis again:
WHAT HUNTER S. THOMPSON COULD AND COULDN'T DO
by Jon Zelazny
I came of age in Ronald Reagan’s America. My parents were Eisenhower-style Republicans, and we lived in a solidly middle class Republican town, in a cultured, but conservative provincial suburb. My parents were happily married, as were the parents of all my friends. Our white-collar dads came home for dinner every night, most of our moms were homemakers who eventually reentered the workforce. My public schools and our church were full of adults who were all pretty much like my parents.
Were there rebels in our town? It’s hard to say. There were teenage hoods, easily identified by their black tee shirts and jean jackets with the logos of heavy metal bands stenciled on the back, but they didn’t strike me as thwarted idealists, just kids who weren’t into school and liked to party. We also had a scattering of artsy-poet-drama types, musicians, and brainy oddballs, but I can’t remember anyone pushing the idea that the authority figures in our lives were human scum who deserved to be subverted and scorned. I certainly had no inclination to rebel against anything or anyone.
Yet I was drawn to a pantheon of ne’er-do-well characters from my favorite movies: Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, and Jack Nicholson in EASY RIDER, Donald Sutherland and Elliot Gould in MASH, Gene Hackman in THE FRENCH CONNECTION, Warren Beatty and Hackman in BONNIE & CLYDE, and Malcolm McDowell in A CLOCKWORK ORANGE. My favorite actor was Jack Nicholson: not the paunchy, middle-aged ham of TERMS OF ENDEARMENT and HEARTBURN, but the smart-ass firecracker of early ‘70’s classics like FIVE EASY PIECES, CARNAL KNOWLEDGE, THE LAST DETAIL, CHINATOWN, and CUCKOO’S NEST.
Unlike my town’s metalheads, most of these characters didn’t enjoy the luxury of social apartness. They were adults, stuck in the real world, who had to continually fight like tigers to maintain their dynamic, individualistic personalities against stifling surroundings, and the humorless, uninspiring authority figures who happened to be in charge of Army hospitals, police stations, small town cafes, or mental health facilities. These dramas struck a heavy chord in me: nothing seemed as admirable as the indomitable will of a crazy, funny person trying to live and work on their own terms.
To such a teenage mindset, the ethos of Hunter S. Thompson fit like a glove. I first read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas when I was sixteen, and was enthralled by the idea of a gainfully employed adult who viewed the world as a grotesque playground run by and predominantly filled with witless, stupid nobodies, and that the Very Hip-- Those Who Clearly Saw What the Deal Was-- were socially bound to judge and condemn the “straight world,” and have a king-hell time while doing it.
Las Vegas had only been published thirteen years before, but the America Thompson feared and loathed seemed like it was from another century, or even another planet. After Las Vegas, I quickly devoured Thompson’s other four books, Hell’s Angels, Campaign Trail ’72, The Great Shark Hunt, and The Curse of Lono. Collectively, his books became my secret social history of America from 1963 and 1977, a shattering evocation of thoughts and feelings that totally flew in the face of my day-to-day reality. (Lono was the only misfire: a gorgeous showcase for illustrator Ralph Steadman, but Thompson’s scattershot text regarding Hawaii was, and remains, almost instantly forgettable.)
I was so enamored, I wrote blatantly Thompson-esque articles for my high school newspaper, writing as though I too were a globetrotting, trouble-prone, hard-partying professional journalist. (I’d love to say I really set my classmates’ hair on fire, but I don’t think anyone actually read them.) And as the Reagan glow waned, Thompson’s vision of The Truth seemed increasingly apropos to current events: I had registered Republican when I turned 18, but within two years, Iran-Contra killed my faith in the party, and I soon resigned.
I was nearly out of college when Thompson’s next book appeared, but sadly, Generation of Swine was a rag bag of lesser commentary, and the maestro was irrevocably slipping. Ever the optimist, I was sure he had at least one more masterpiece percolating somewhere, that like the Dylan of '97, Hunter Thompson too would suddenly burst forth afresh, as intuitive and insightful for a new generation as he’d once been for his own, but he never published anything again that made the slightest impact on me. Only his 2005 suicide and funeral would evoke the pathos, humor, bombast, and social commentary of his best writing.
So it was bittersweet watching Alex Gibney’s new documentary, GONZO: THE LIFE AND WORK OF DR. HUNTER S. THOMPSON, which opens with the revelation that Thompson was equally disappointed by the decline of his later work. As one might expect, Gibney provides plenty of celebration of the man’s bad craziness, but there’s a surprising amount of tough criticism: Jann Wenner can only think of three great articles Thompson wrote after 1977, Gary Hart calls his political outlook “childish,” and his first wife obliquely deems his suicide an act of cowardice.
Why did Thompson’s intellect and output burn so brightly for about a decade, then fall into such irrelevance? GONZO highlights the paradox that even as Thompson relentlessly pursued fame, his three greatest long-form works—Hell’s Angels, Las Vegas, and Campaign Trail ’72—could only have been written by a non-celebrity. In all three, Thompson presents himself as a Wise Fool offering a guided tour of isolated worlds. He profiles the people, details behavior and social custom, and offers pointed judgments at every turn. Thompson truly embedded himself in these situations, and the people he met to become so used to his presence that they behaved naturally around him. Once he became an infamous public personality however, such infiltration was no longer possible. Thompson summarizes the dilemma when he describes attending a function with Jimmy Carter during the 1976 presidential campaign, and how embarrassed he was when people were more interested in him than the candidate.
Fame (and it's excesses) were certainly reasons Thompson didn’t write further social studies to stand with his classic trio, but that doesn’t really answer the more important, and strangely unasked question: once comfortably established as an author, why couldn’t Thompson evolve from journalism and commentary into literary fiction?
Consider Tom Wolfe, his most notable New Journalism peer: following the stratospheric success of the nonfiction The Right Stuff, Wolfe stopped accepting assignments, and settled in for the better part of the eighties to write the epic New York novel he’d been dreaming of for twenty years. The result, The Bonfire of the Vanities, was a hell of a novel, and a quantum leap from Wolfe’s highly regarded journalism. His subsequent novels, A Man in Full and I Am Charlotte Simmons, while not as strong, are still insightful, technically dazzling, and never less than wholly entertaining.
As a young man, Thompson likewise aspired to be a great American novelist, frequently citing his admiration of heavyweights like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Joseph Conrad. In GONZO, someone repeats the anecdote that Thompson once retyped The Great Gatsby in order to absorb Fitzgerald’s “literary rhythm.” When I first heard that years ago, I thought, “Wow, Thompson copied Fitzgerald, and I copied Thompson!” But it isn’t really true: while I aped my hero’s style and persona, those stories I wrote for my high school paper were my own. It wouldn't have occurred to me to retype Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and at this point in my life, I think the idea that you could learn anything about writing by retyping a famous book is stupid.
A number of people in GONZO praise Thompson for his imagination, but the film ultimately revealed the opposite to me: that Hunter S. Thompson’s greatest failure as a writer was that he possessed almost no imagination whatsoever.
Retyping Fitzgerald aside, can you think of any other best-selling author whose body of work was assigned articles? (I consider Las Vegas one of my favorite novels, but it really wasn’t: it too was a magazine assignment.) Thompson’s friends and family admit his later books of repackaged old material and letters were put out simply to make money, so where are all the short stories, outlines for novels, and assorted scraps of fiction one would expect to find in the dusty storage bins of any famous writer? How is it possible a man who worshipped Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Conrad didn’t leave behind even one short story from his youth? And if didn’t write any then, why not later?
Part of the answer can be found in his second novel, The Rum Diary, which Thompson completed when he was 22, but only published forty years later. (His first novel remains unpublished.) Both were autobiographical stories, with The Rum Diary based on Thompson’s experiences as a journalist in Puerto Rico circa '59. It’s competent, but uninspired, witless, and dull. Did this early failure forever hobble Thompson's confidence in his abilities? If so, he was a coward and fool. How could he not have understood that great novelists spend years honing their craft? Did he set himself such impossibly high standards for fiction that they became his lifelong excuse for not even trying?
Surveying the breadth of his work today, I’m most struck by Thompson’s narrowness. All he was ever able to write about were his own thoughts and feelings, and describe things he had observed firsthand. Yet even as he was drawn to all kinds of human excitement, he clearly lacked the crucial traits of curiosity and empathy a good writer needs to imagine what other people are thinking or feeling. You can feel him trying in some of his sixties articles, and in Hell’s Angels, but as his gonzo persona began to solidify, his interest and willingness to wrestle with the beguiling complexities of human relations was rapidly ebbing.
Instead, he just started making up funny shit, then honed his knee jerk assumptions into well crafted, but outrageous fantasies. If he observed people acting in a strange manner, he generally chalked it up to drug use. It's pretty funny in Las Vegas: two guys on an epic drug binge accusing everybody else of being on drugs. It’s not quite as funny in Campaign Trail ’72 when Thompson claims veteran newsman John Chancellor did acid, or spins a fantasy of troubled Democrat Ed Muskie abusing a drug called ibogaine, a false story that was picked up by other reporters and damaged the candidate’s reputation. Why did Thompson make such an obnoxious choice? What kind of person couldn’t offer a glimmer of sympathy for a candidate floundering under intense pressure? What the ibogaine story demonstrates to me is Thompson’s ever-growing emotional disconnection.
The price his work ultimately paid for this defect was its crushing lack of subtlety. His view of humanity WAS childish: the vast majority of people he encounters are denounced as treacherous greedheads, while occasional exceptions like George McGovern, Muhammad Ali, or Jimmy Carter are venerated as Honest, Decent, Openhearted, and Fair-minded.
No “character” better illustrates Thompson’s method of “typecasting” than Richard Nixon. It’s generally noted the 37th President held the quintessential master villain role in Thompson’s worldview, and once he resigned, Thompson was left without a comparable public figure to focus his contempt on. I too considered Thompson’s Nixon articles the most powerful work of his career… until Oliver Stone released his biopic NIXON in 1995.
Stone and Thompson are sixties rebels cut from the same cloth (with Stone’s SALVADOR a better Thompson homage than Terry Gilliam’s FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS), and one can easily assume Stone harbored tremendously bad feelings about Nixon throughout his life, but the compassion and empathy he mustered as a middle-aged man to tell NIXON is nothing short of astounding. Stone depicts a nervous little boy who grows up to be an insecure political animal, and shows how the little things that ate away Nixon’s good qualities eventually left a damaged and dangerous man at the helm of the most powerful country in the world. You can debate the film's facts and interpretations, but firebrand Stone's quietest movie ever is a profound and nuanced meditation on the confluence of person, persona, and power. Thompson could only make you fear and loathe a monster, but Stone makes you weep for a man. Is there any doubt which task required the greater imagination?
I also think Thompson had nowhere to go as a writer after Watergate because he had long ago dispensed with the actual ethos of journalism, replacing them solely with his own personality. He had no capacity to create original characters and stories, and lacked the interest or discipline to channel his creative skills into new forms. When collected newspaper editorials began appearing in the nineties, it was immediately apparent his best stories were the ones he physically participated in. As a mere commentator-- watching CNN for cues, issuing barky screeds from his home in rural Colorado-- his thoughts were no more or less interesting and insightful than those offered by hundreds of other career journalists penning opinion columns.
I'd further posit that after his youthful dreams of literary success died, what Hunter Thompson most feared and loathed was writing itself. He sure bitched about it enough, and GONZO again offers that photo of him taking a bead at his typewriter with a .44 Magnum. If true, it suggests an arc even more tragic than Nixon’s: A failed novelist becomes a journalist because he has no other talents, abilities, or inclinations. He treats his profession with increasing contempt, his work gets sloppier, until, miraculously, his rebelliousness strikes a chord with a generation in turmoil, and thus he achieves a fame beyond his wildest dreams… only his astounding success further cements him to the profession he’s long despised. He still can’t bring himself to attempt the kind of writing he once loved, and can’t think of anything else to do, so he adopts the persona of a professional party animal… until he gets old, and can’t even do that as well as he used to, so he shoots himself in the head.
I used to love hearing what a wild and crazy guy Thompson was, but the more the stories are told in GONZO, the less enamored I became. Was he really that much fun to be around? Maybe for a short visit, or if your idea of a great time is to get loaded, talk a lot of shit, and shoot off some guns. Thompson was a hoodlum in the fifties, and probably would’ve been a metalhead if he grew up in my town thirty years later. I’m pretty sure those guys thought I was a dipshit in high school, so I can’t imagine I would have impressed my old literary outlaw icon either. But that’s okay. I love action, drama, neurosis, violence, profanity, bad behavior, and outrageous humor—but only in books, movies, music, and my own writing. My actual life is quiet and peaceful, and I wouldn’t want it otherwise, or even pretend it was otherwise for the purpose of sustaining a cult of personality, because I’ve thought a lot about the dichotomy between person and persona, and I think people who confuse the two often end up in a giant stew of psychic trauma.
I owe Hunter S. Thompson immeasurably. His work has been an enduring influence on my own. But his work is still here, right there on my shelf when I need a jolt of inspiration or a good laugh. As for the man himself—who he was, what he did, and how he lived—I really don’t give a shit anymore.
June 29, 2018
Read an advance copy--really makes me miss HST. It provides the political and personal context for his best work: "Hell's Angels;" "F&L in Las Vegas;" and "F&L: On the Campaign Trail of '72." If you love that stuff, you'll love this.
August 5, 2018
https://msarki.tumblr.com/post/176672...
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson is for some an acquired taste. His outrageous and destructive behavior added a negative to his celebrity that was earned first as an insightful and brave journalist. Drugs and alcohol eventually got the best of him.
...Hunter Thompson was grabbing a drink at the Jerome with some friends when he noticed movement near the entrance; someone he didn’t know was walking up to the bar. This stranger was large: over six feet tall weighing at least 250 pounds. He had curly hair, a broad, expressive brow. His eyes were small and pointed─alert. He introduced himself: Oscar Acosta. “I’m the trouble you’ve been looking for,” he added wryly.
Thompson took his politics seriously, and the terror and unrest of the sixties stole from us all some very good men and women. The country was in crisis, and the best of the best were being shot down.
...“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing,” Bobby said just before he was assassinated, a quote his brother had attributed to Edmund Burke…
Due to the character flaws of leaders like Hubert Humphrey and Richard Nixon, Hunter Thompson sought to reveal them for who they were. Many of Thompson’s “truths” and observations in print turned out to be revelatory. The future Thompson predicted was also something that led to his own personal demons destroying what was best in him.
...When you vote for president today you’re talking about giving a man dictatorial power for four years. I think it might be better to have the real business of the presidency conducted by a City Manager-type, a Prime Minister, somebody who’s directly answerable to Congress, rather than a person who moves all his friends into the White House and does whatever he wants for four years. The whole framework of the presidency is getting out of hand, It’s come to the point where you almost can’t run unless you can cause people to salivate and whip on each other with big sticks. You almost have to be a rock star to get the kind of fever you need to survive in American politics.
All through the book I kept thinking that if Thompson were here today to witness first hand Donald J. Trump he would definitely kill himself again. I kept saying to myself as I read that it is true that history does repeat itself.
...In the end the tragedy wasn’t just about Nixon, at least in the strictest sense; what was really at stake would be much bigger than the current moment. As he’s written that summer: “The slow-rising central horror of ‘Watergate’ is not that it might grind down to the reluctant impeachment of a vengeful thug of a president whose entire political career has been a monument to the same kind of cheap shots and treachery he finally got nailed for, but that we might somehow fail to learn something from it.”
The author Timothy Denevi has performed a great service for the good citizens of these United States. Using Hunter S. Thompson as subject, Denevi has adroitly shown the parallels between Nixon and Trump without ever mentioning his name. For those of us who want the truth and are willing to hear it, this book has it in spades. This book is a great and important work.
In May 1974, Republican congressman Charles Wiggins, one of Nixon’s staunchest supporters, tried to contextualize the mushrooming Watergate scandal: “These things go in fifty-year cycles,” he said, “from Grant to Harding to Nixon.”
And now Trump.
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson is for some an acquired taste. His outrageous and destructive behavior added a negative to his celebrity that was earned first as an insightful and brave journalist. Drugs and alcohol eventually got the best of him.
...Hunter Thompson was grabbing a drink at the Jerome with some friends when he noticed movement near the entrance; someone he didn’t know was walking up to the bar. This stranger was large: over six feet tall weighing at least 250 pounds. He had curly hair, a broad, expressive brow. His eyes were small and pointed─alert. He introduced himself: Oscar Acosta. “I’m the trouble you’ve been looking for,” he added wryly.
Thompson took his politics seriously, and the terror and unrest of the sixties stole from us all some very good men and women. The country was in crisis, and the best of the best were being shot down.
...“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing,” Bobby said just before he was assassinated, a quote his brother had attributed to Edmund Burke…
Due to the character flaws of leaders like Hubert Humphrey and Richard Nixon, Hunter Thompson sought to reveal them for who they were. Many of Thompson’s “truths” and observations in print turned out to be revelatory. The future Thompson predicted was also something that led to his own personal demons destroying what was best in him.
...When you vote for president today you’re talking about giving a man dictatorial power for four years. I think it might be better to have the real business of the presidency conducted by a City Manager-type, a Prime Minister, somebody who’s directly answerable to Congress, rather than a person who moves all his friends into the White House and does whatever he wants for four years. The whole framework of the presidency is getting out of hand, It’s come to the point where you almost can’t run unless you can cause people to salivate and whip on each other with big sticks. You almost have to be a rock star to get the kind of fever you need to survive in American politics.
All through the book I kept thinking that if Thompson were here today to witness first hand Donald J. Trump he would definitely kill himself again. I kept saying to myself as I read that it is true that history does repeat itself.
...In the end the tragedy wasn’t just about Nixon, at least in the strictest sense; what was really at stake would be much bigger than the current moment. As he’s written that summer: “The slow-rising central horror of ‘Watergate’ is not that it might grind down to the reluctant impeachment of a vengeful thug of a president whose entire political career has been a monument to the same kind of cheap shots and treachery he finally got nailed for, but that we might somehow fail to learn something from it.”
The author Timothy Denevi has performed a great service for the good citizens of these United States. Using Hunter S. Thompson as subject, Denevi has adroitly shown the parallels between Nixon and Trump without ever mentioning his name. For those of us who want the truth and are willing to hear it, this book has it in spades. This book is a great and important work.
In May 1974, Republican congressman Charles Wiggins, one of Nixon’s staunchest supporters, tried to contextualize the mushrooming Watergate scandal: “These things go in fifty-year cycles,” he said, “from Grant to Harding to Nixon.”
And now Trump.
May 12, 2019
I do not think he was a great writer. I think he clearly had great potential, both as a writer and a leader. However, he fell, dramatically, and a very, very long time ago. Hunter wanted to be a great writer and he had the genius, the talent, and early on, the will and the means. He was horrified by whom he had become and ashamed- or I really should say tortured. He knew he had failed. He knew that his writing was absolutely not great...and yet, he could never climb back.
- Sandy, Hunter S. Thompson's first wife, years later
This is not exactly a biography, but rather a portrait of the roughly ten years of Thompson’s life- from Kennedy's assassination in ’63 to Nixon’s resignation in ’74- that made up his prime as a writer.
You get to know Thompson more intimately through his letters, particularly those in The Proud Highway, but Denevi's book offered a number of scenes that were new to me. It's good for the soul to imagine others at their best, moving in and out of history, so I enjoyed hearing about the night Thompson showed up at a Hell's Angels meeting, won their trust without getting beaten, brought a pack of them back to his apartment (first showing them his shotgun and assuring them that he knew how to use it), and spent the night with them drinking, talking and listening to Dylan; I enjoyed picturing him at a club called the Matrix for Jefferson Airplane's debut concert ('...to [Thompson] the Airplane captured the sound that was 1960s San Francisco: an electric, cacophonous wave'), and then, a few years later, at the Watergate Hotel bar with his friend Tom Quinn, talking '...until last call about life and politics and professional football', unaware that a break-in was taking place above them. Denevi also helped to fill in a number of gaps in my understanding of Thompson's life, particularly in regards to his drug use. By '64, according to Denevi, Thompson had already been a functioning alcoholic for about a decade, ever since his high school years. In '64, a doctor friend recommended that he try Dexedrine, which he would take daily throughout the next ten years. Denevi makes it clear that Thompson's use of the drug was utilitarian, and that it helped him to get through some incredibly difficult crunches, like when he had to turn in his first draft of Hell's Angels.
The deadline was now four days away...Thompson's plan was to work straight through without sleep. In the morning he walked across the street to a McDonald's, where he bought hamburgers, his only source of sustenance. Other than that he stayed in the room. An old radio provided a steady crackle of music. The cars beyond his window hissed by with varying frequency. It was the tail end of Northern California's rainy season. A marine dimness across the state...It might be easy to paint with a broad brush about San Francisco and drug use in the 60s, but Denevi draws a meaningful contrast between Thompson's motivations for Dexedrine and those of, say, Ken Kesey or Tim Leary for using LSD (not to mention those of the Angels, who used everything, indiscriminately and often simultaneously). Later, in writing, Thompson described that latter mindset contemptuously, referring to
…a generation of permanent cripples, failed seekers, who never understood the essential old-mystic fallacy of the Acid Culture: the desperate assumption that somebody- or at least some force- is tending that Light at the end of the tunnel.Dexedrine, on the other hand, Thompson understood,
...was really a performance sustainer, a way for talented but presently overwhelmed individuals to bridge the gap between ambition and productivity...but [it] was no magic bullet. It helped him stay seated and focused for longer amounts of time...but it couldn't create worthwhile ideas out of thin air.Denevi presents this as a cautionary tale, and I suppose it is. He ascribes somewhat heroic qualities to Thompson, making the argument that Thompson sacrificed himself, his long-term health and well-being, to bring the country word of the incipient fascism he glimpsed at the RNC in '64, among the Hell's Angels (unlike Kesey and the Merry Pranksters, Thompson always had a fairly sober view of the Angels), on the streets of Chicago in '68, and in the election of Richard Nixon. I think that's fair, I have no doubt of Thompson's moral purpose or skill, but I think Denevi also elides the fact that this is the same kind of trade-off that ambitious people in all walks of life tend to make, for better or worse- not just writers and artists, that is, but no doubt athletes and lawyers, members of Congress and medical students. Nobility and ambition aren't mutually exclusive, and we don't need to pretend that they are. If you're a writer and you sense that you're living through history, that this is your time to say what you were perhaps put on earth to say, you will probably do just about anything to write a great book, consequences be damned. I'm not sure that Denevi really wrestles with that mindset in all its nuance and perversity. There might be wisdom in taking it slow, taking care of yourself, biding your time, playing the long game...but that's not how Thompson chose to live his life.
Thompson's career after '74 is neatly summed up by Denevi in two words: cocaine and fame, both of which writers would do well to avoid. By ’74, he’d become pretty well-established. Rolling Stone assigned him to review Freud's The Cocaine Papers, mailed him a copy of the book along with a generous sampling of the substance in question, and the article never got written. ‘From then on’, as one of his editors put it, ‘he wouldn’t do a story unless you included cocaine with the payment. And he dried up and couldn't write.’ Around the same time, Thompson discovered that his reputation allowed him to earn about $20,000 a pop for giving impromptu monologues on college campuses. According to Denevi, Thompson would use cocaine (Dexedrine had lost its effectiveness for him) regularly for the rest of his life- the next thirty years.
Then again, '74 was also the year Nixon resigned. Maybe there's a lesson in that, as well. Maybe we should never take our enemies for granted, because they sustain and inspire us. Or, to paraphrase esteemed cultural critic Marilyn Manson, it’s good for art when there’s an evil president. Which is partly why I think it's a shame that Thompson isn't around today.
November 15, 2018
On the Campaign Trail 72' being my favorite Thompson's book, I really wanted to know more about his politics and this read revealed fascinating details and put his life between 1960 and 1974 in full context.
The 64' republican convention
His trips to South America
How he settled in Colorado
His times in California with the Hells Angel's and the Chicano mouvement
His run for sheriff of Aspen
The Vegas book
The Nixon impeachment hearings
Everything is explained at length
The 64' republican convention
His trips to South America
How he settled in Colorado
His times in California with the Hells Angel's and the Chicano mouvement
His run for sheriff of Aspen
The Vegas book
The Nixon impeachment hearings
Everything is explained at length
January 13, 2024
When I was in college, I availed myself of the free Washington Post in the library and soon became a fan of the Doonesbury comic strip, the title character of which was also a college student at the time. As I read the strip over the years my favorite character became Duke, the cynical, globe-trotting, drug aficianado who appeared from time to time. Years later I read that the Duke character was based on someone named Hunter Thompson, of whom I had never heard. I read this book primarily to see if there was a connection.
When I read a couple of the physical descriptions of Thompson included in this book, it seemed certain that Gary Trudeau was borrowing the general appearance with accessories such as the aviator shades and the cigarette holder for the Duke character. The other similarities include dependence on alcohol and amphetamines and a knack for turning up at major events. When he is being beat up by Chicago cops outside the 1968 Democratic convention or drinking tequila at the Watergate bar while the historic burglary is taking place several floors above him, Thompson's life sometimes reads like an out-of-focus history book.
Professor Denevi has focused this book on the years 1963 through 1974 and Thompson's continuing despisal of Richard Nixon. To Thompson, Nixon symbolizes everything that is wrong with the American political process, and Thompson makes hating Nixon something similar to a crusade. The tragedy of the story seems to be that after Nixon's resignation, Thompson's life seems to have lost its meaning. He became the dog who caught the car and didn't know what to do with it. It is too bad that Thompson did not live long enough to see all that he detested in Nixon re-assert itself in American politics with the involvement of Donald Trump and his appeal to the same elements of the electorate that made Nixon president.
When I read a couple of the physical descriptions of Thompson included in this book, it seemed certain that Gary Trudeau was borrowing the general appearance with accessories such as the aviator shades and the cigarette holder for the Duke character. The other similarities include dependence on alcohol and amphetamines and a knack for turning up at major events. When he is being beat up by Chicago cops outside the 1968 Democratic convention or drinking tequila at the Watergate bar while the historic burglary is taking place several floors above him, Thompson's life sometimes reads like an out-of-focus history book.
Professor Denevi has focused this book on the years 1963 through 1974 and Thompson's continuing despisal of Richard Nixon. To Thompson, Nixon symbolizes everything that is wrong with the American political process, and Thompson makes hating Nixon something similar to a crusade. The tragedy of the story seems to be that after Nixon's resignation, Thompson's life seems to have lost its meaning. He became the dog who caught the car and didn't know what to do with it. It is too bad that Thompson did not live long enough to see all that he detested in Nixon re-assert itself in American politics with the involvement of Donald Trump and his appeal to the same elements of the electorate that made Nixon president.
November 13, 2018
Denevi makes history read like a novel. I learned things about American history that I never knew and came away with a completely different opinion of HST’s writing than I’d had before. A great idea superbly executed.
January 7, 2019
As a person that really didn’t know a whole lot about HST, I enjoyed the chronological format of this book in what seems to be the most relevant era in his career. Truth be told, I always thought HST to be an overrated eccentric writer. Recent pop culture turned him into an icon that I really found annoying. I had read small pieces of his work and found both brilliance and hilarity, but since I didn’t live through that era, it didn’t necessarily connect with me. This bio made me see his career on a new light. I respect his crusade for democracy and candid insight, even if he remained a flawed and selfish person. Maybe I will reread some of his work, especially some of the essays and editorials from this book. As a side note, In the era of trump, I also couldn’t help but see the similarities HST wrote about Nixon, Goldwater, and much of the GOP politics of the late 60’s. I’m sure the author chose some of the quotes he added with this in mind.
February 25, 2019
This book kinds of falls off a ledge at a decade into HST's career. The thesis is that HST dried up and became a caricature of himself once he became famous. His passionate desire that America could do better had been dashed again and again until HST concluded 'we are a nation of cheap hustlers and used car salesmen who will kill anyone who makes us uncomfortable'. That, the booze IV drip and heroic quantities of amphetamines finished him off. I still miss him and would love to know what he would make of the epic shit show playing out before us today.
January 6, 2024
As a young journalist, I reviewed Hunter Thompson's Hell's Angels book for a Los Angeles daily newspaper and then followed every written word of his career until it ended with a gunshot in 2005. Timothy Denevi does a solid job of capturing the 10 most important years of Hunter's writing life. Here is something I published a few years ago about an evening I spent with Hunter.
HUNTER THOMPSON PAYS A VISIT TO BABYLON
Bill Wasserzieher, Rock's Backpages, 2015
HUNTER THOMPSON'S SUICIDE ten years ago this month should not have come as a surprise. His dark tales about riding with a biker gang, Mace-spraying spectators at the Kentucky Derby, that famous drug-fueled expedition to Las Vegas, interviewing Nixon over a men's room urinal, the sexual escapades of rich Floridians, etc., were dispatches from a man at war with much that passes for American culture. My direct acquaintance with him lasted only ten strange and twisted hours back in the mid-1970s, but even then it was obvious he would not pass away peacefully at an advanced age.
When I met him, I was a young writer in New York, working as a copy editor at the Village Voice and struggling to finish a doctorate at the SUNY Stony Brook campus on Long Island. The university major-domos had offered Thompson a sizable check to speak in the student union, and Hunter not one to pass up an easy buck had accepted. He'd then called Lucien Truscott IV, a friend and a staff writer at the Voice, and convinced him to handle transportation out to the campus. Lucien, a descendant of Thomas Jefferson and a graduate of West Point, knew Hunter well enough to know he would need help keeping the Rolling Stone-r in check, and so he drafted me.
Hunter arrived at La Guardia Airport the evening of his speaking engagement wired worse than a cheap toaster. He had taken acid before catching the commuter plane from his home in Woody Creek to Denver and had spent the flight from there to New York swigging every miniature bottle he could cajole the stewardesses into giving him. The man came down the La Guardia gangway like a shifting load of bricks about to topple.
For transportation to the university, Hunter required that we provide a convertible and that it must be red. No matter that it was still winter. The only rental to meet his specs turned out to be a colossally unhip 1973 AMC Matador, a car every bit as ugly as its sister Rambler, Gremlin and Pacer models. Despite snow and ice on the roadway and a car built for sunny days, we did our best to make good time on the Long Island Expressway — until Hunter saw a sign announcing the town of Babylon as the next exit.
The timetable for his university appearance then zoomed straight into an incorporeal ditch. Like an eight-year-old near Disneyland, he wouldn't shut up about wanting to stop. "It's Babylon, it's Babylon!" he said, despite being told the township was just a bedroom community where Geraldo Rivera and Captain Kangaroo once lived. And he had his way.
By the time we got him to Stony Brook, it was nearly three hours past his seven o'clock scheduled talk. But he had an audience waiting, and some gonzo fan had placed a bottle of Wild Turkey on the podium, which Hunter proceeded to empty over the next hour. By the end of his lecture, he was responding to questions about the then current Nixon Watergate scandal with answers about a local water rights feud he had going in Woody Creek. Incoherence reigned, and some students — those distressed to see a counter-culture mega-hero take giant verbal pratfalls — left before Hunter finally stumbled off the stage.
Then he wanted to go back to Babylon. There were more places to drink there, including the only country & western bar on Long Island, where he insulted two late-30s women in cowgirl outfits and got us chased out by a barman with baseball bat. Hunter had suggested something about riding that involved his torso rather than a horse.
At the next stop he switched from bourbon to an umbrella concoction and finally stopped talking long enough for me to ask the callow questions I'd been saving all night.
"Hunter, what's your relationship like with Rolling Stone," I said, fishing for info so I could get in the magazine's pages.
"I don't have a relation-ship. I use them, they use me."
"It sounds like a marriage."
"You're a funny kid. Do I know you?"
"I helped pick you up at LaGuardia."
"Umm."
"This may be a bad question, but how come you never write anything about music for Rolling Stone? I'd love to know which bands you like."
"Bands? You mean assholes in bell-bottoms? I don't like any of them. Bunch of tie-dyed phonies. I'd rather listen to jazz. Plus Jann [Wenner] owes his soul to the parking lot people [Kinney National Company] who run Warner Bros. They loaned him $40,000, so you know their albums are gonna be five fuckin' stars."
"Do you still do any travel writing? Years ago I read your piece on Jack London Square in Oakland. I thought it was terrific."
"I never wrote anything on fuckin' Jack London Square."
"Well, it had your byline in Cavalier magazine. I read it just after your Hell's Angels book came out."
"Cavalier? The peekaboo skin mag? I never did anything for them. You making this up?"
"No, no. I read it, I swear. Maybe they just used your name?"
"Stop talking to me."
Hunter turned the other way to where Lucien sat and gave me the back of his head for the next 30 minutes, during which I scribbled cocktail napkin notes on the preceding conversation. Lucien, I noticed for the third time in the evening, took a small pill from a handkerchief and chewed it. I figured it for some sort of speed to aid in keeping up with Hunter, but learned a week later it was just aspirin for a cold. Lucien was already at work on Dress Grey, his 1979 best-selling novel.
When it approached closing time and Hunter had been silent over his umbrella special for 20 or so minutes, he suddenly sat bolt upright and announced it was time to go back to LaGuardia. He then began hassling the tired bartender to sell him a six-pack to go.
"I can't do that. I could lose my license," the man said.
"Who's gonna tell anybody? We're the only ones here!" Hunter said, pressing a $20 on him. Back in the AMC Matador, he finished or spilled two of the Rheingold beers before we reached the airport just after 4 a.m.
"I need a nap," he declared, despite a takeoff time in two hours. It was only then that he told us he would be flying to Boston for brunch with Senator Ted Kennedy. We dropped him off at the first airport perimeter hotel we saw. He walked through the revolving door, the remains of six-pack tucked under his arm.
I then went home and tried to sleep before I had to teach a writing class at the university. I hadn't matched Hunter drink-for-drink, but even nursing my intake had left me so hung over that I stopped lecturing twice that afternoon to buy 7-Ups out of vending machines.
That was the last I saw of Hunter, though a decade later on the West Coast I had a chance to renew the acquaintance. He was set to appear at a local rock club called Bogart's that had taken to mixing speakers with bands. The manager suggested I'd be the right man to pick up Thompson at the airport and bring him to the club. "You've got experience!" he said. I quickly begged off and told him to find some other fall guy. I suppose he did, but whoever got the job turned out not to be needed. This time Hunter didn't even make the plane.
When Hunter Thompson shot himself in the head on Feb. 20, 2005, he ended a career that had long ago peaked. His later pieces seemed the wreckage of a once audacious mind now soused beyond salvage. For every good paragraph there were others no editor could fix. A long-threatened novel, Polo Is My Life, never made it out of the paddock. At the memorial service, his family and friends fired the man's ashes from a cannon atop a double-thumbed hand holding a peyote button. It seemed an appropriate exit.
© Bill Wasserzieher, 2015
HUNTER THOMPSON PAYS A VISIT TO BABYLON
Bill Wasserzieher, Rock's Backpages, 2015
HUNTER THOMPSON'S SUICIDE ten years ago this month should not have come as a surprise. His dark tales about riding with a biker gang, Mace-spraying spectators at the Kentucky Derby, that famous drug-fueled expedition to Las Vegas, interviewing Nixon over a men's room urinal, the sexual escapades of rich Floridians, etc., were dispatches from a man at war with much that passes for American culture. My direct acquaintance with him lasted only ten strange and twisted hours back in the mid-1970s, but even then it was obvious he would not pass away peacefully at an advanced age.
When I met him, I was a young writer in New York, working as a copy editor at the Village Voice and struggling to finish a doctorate at the SUNY Stony Brook campus on Long Island. The university major-domos had offered Thompson a sizable check to speak in the student union, and Hunter not one to pass up an easy buck had accepted. He'd then called Lucien Truscott IV, a friend and a staff writer at the Voice, and convinced him to handle transportation out to the campus. Lucien, a descendant of Thomas Jefferson and a graduate of West Point, knew Hunter well enough to know he would need help keeping the Rolling Stone-r in check, and so he drafted me.
Hunter arrived at La Guardia Airport the evening of his speaking engagement wired worse than a cheap toaster. He had taken acid before catching the commuter plane from his home in Woody Creek to Denver and had spent the flight from there to New York swigging every miniature bottle he could cajole the stewardesses into giving him. The man came down the La Guardia gangway like a shifting load of bricks about to topple.
For transportation to the university, Hunter required that we provide a convertible and that it must be red. No matter that it was still winter. The only rental to meet his specs turned out to be a colossally unhip 1973 AMC Matador, a car every bit as ugly as its sister Rambler, Gremlin and Pacer models. Despite snow and ice on the roadway and a car built for sunny days, we did our best to make good time on the Long Island Expressway — until Hunter saw a sign announcing the town of Babylon as the next exit.
The timetable for his university appearance then zoomed straight into an incorporeal ditch. Like an eight-year-old near Disneyland, he wouldn't shut up about wanting to stop. "It's Babylon, it's Babylon!" he said, despite being told the township was just a bedroom community where Geraldo Rivera and Captain Kangaroo once lived. And he had his way.
By the time we got him to Stony Brook, it was nearly three hours past his seven o'clock scheduled talk. But he had an audience waiting, and some gonzo fan had placed a bottle of Wild Turkey on the podium, which Hunter proceeded to empty over the next hour. By the end of his lecture, he was responding to questions about the then current Nixon Watergate scandal with answers about a local water rights feud he had going in Woody Creek. Incoherence reigned, and some students — those distressed to see a counter-culture mega-hero take giant verbal pratfalls — left before Hunter finally stumbled off the stage.
Then he wanted to go back to Babylon. There were more places to drink there, including the only country & western bar on Long Island, where he insulted two late-30s women in cowgirl outfits and got us chased out by a barman with baseball bat. Hunter had suggested something about riding that involved his torso rather than a horse.
At the next stop he switched from bourbon to an umbrella concoction and finally stopped talking long enough for me to ask the callow questions I'd been saving all night.
"Hunter, what's your relationship like with Rolling Stone," I said, fishing for info so I could get in the magazine's pages.
"I don't have a relation-ship. I use them, they use me."
"It sounds like a marriage."
"You're a funny kid. Do I know you?"
"I helped pick you up at LaGuardia."
"Umm."
"This may be a bad question, but how come you never write anything about music for Rolling Stone? I'd love to know which bands you like."
"Bands? You mean assholes in bell-bottoms? I don't like any of them. Bunch of tie-dyed phonies. I'd rather listen to jazz. Plus Jann [Wenner] owes his soul to the parking lot people [Kinney National Company] who run Warner Bros. They loaned him $40,000, so you know their albums are gonna be five fuckin' stars."
"Do you still do any travel writing? Years ago I read your piece on Jack London Square in Oakland. I thought it was terrific."
"I never wrote anything on fuckin' Jack London Square."
"Well, it had your byline in Cavalier magazine. I read it just after your Hell's Angels book came out."
"Cavalier? The peekaboo skin mag? I never did anything for them. You making this up?"
"No, no. I read it, I swear. Maybe they just used your name?"
"Stop talking to me."
Hunter turned the other way to where Lucien sat and gave me the back of his head for the next 30 minutes, during which I scribbled cocktail napkin notes on the preceding conversation. Lucien, I noticed for the third time in the evening, took a small pill from a handkerchief and chewed it. I figured it for some sort of speed to aid in keeping up with Hunter, but learned a week later it was just aspirin for a cold. Lucien was already at work on Dress Grey, his 1979 best-selling novel.
When it approached closing time and Hunter had been silent over his umbrella special for 20 or so minutes, he suddenly sat bolt upright and announced it was time to go back to LaGuardia. He then began hassling the tired bartender to sell him a six-pack to go.
"I can't do that. I could lose my license," the man said.
"Who's gonna tell anybody? We're the only ones here!" Hunter said, pressing a $20 on him. Back in the AMC Matador, he finished or spilled two of the Rheingold beers before we reached the airport just after 4 a.m.
"I need a nap," he declared, despite a takeoff time in two hours. It was only then that he told us he would be flying to Boston for brunch with Senator Ted Kennedy. We dropped him off at the first airport perimeter hotel we saw. He walked through the revolving door, the remains of six-pack tucked under his arm.
I then went home and tried to sleep before I had to teach a writing class at the university. I hadn't matched Hunter drink-for-drink, but even nursing my intake had left me so hung over that I stopped lecturing twice that afternoon to buy 7-Ups out of vending machines.
That was the last I saw of Hunter, though a decade later on the West Coast I had a chance to renew the acquaintance. He was set to appear at a local rock club called Bogart's that had taken to mixing speakers with bands. The manager suggested I'd be the right man to pick up Thompson at the airport and bring him to the club. "You've got experience!" he said. I quickly begged off and told him to find some other fall guy. I suppose he did, but whoever got the job turned out not to be needed. This time Hunter didn't even make the plane.
When Hunter Thompson shot himself in the head on Feb. 20, 2005, he ended a career that had long ago peaked. His later pieces seemed the wreckage of a once audacious mind now soused beyond salvage. For every good paragraph there were others no editor could fix. A long-threatened novel, Polo Is My Life, never made it out of the paddock. At the memorial service, his family and friends fired the man's ashes from a cannon atop a double-thumbed hand holding a peyote button. It seemed an appropriate exit.
© Bill Wasserzieher, 2015
March 24, 2021
Good stuff on the whole and clearly well researched, but lacking the occasional punch and a bit erratic towards the end as it crams in an overall depiction of who Hunter S. Thompson was. Nobody can tell you better than Thompson himself, through his work (which is frequently quoted throughout).
It will serve as a nice companion piece to the uber-fans and those that are looking for the post-death fixture of his work, but it lacks that certain something. Denevi has researched and written well, but there is something off-kilter about it, and I'm not too sure what it is.
Perhaps it is the pacing, which rattles through most of the events in the ten-year period of Thompson's most productive years. Most of the information here can be found through just reading his work, which most people engaging with Freak Kingdom will have done so already. Still, there are some nice pointers throughout, but the personal life of Hunter S. Thompson was never of interest to me. Who'd have thought the drug-crazed mastermind was, in fact, a horrible and strange person? That's what dexedrine does, I suppose.
It will serve as a nice companion piece to the uber-fans and those that are looking for the post-death fixture of his work, but it lacks that certain something. Denevi has researched and written well, but there is something off-kilter about it, and I'm not too sure what it is.
Perhaps it is the pacing, which rattles through most of the events in the ten-year period of Thompson's most productive years. Most of the information here can be found through just reading his work, which most people engaging with Freak Kingdom will have done so already. Still, there are some nice pointers throughout, but the personal life of Hunter S. Thompson was never of interest to me. Who'd have thought the drug-crazed mastermind was, in fact, a horrible and strange person? That's what dexedrine does, I suppose.
April 15, 2019
The author seems to get into Hunter's mind so much that it becomes hard to tell (in the audiobook) where he is quoting Hunter or telling a narrative involving him. I learned a good deal about Hunter and politics and highly recommend the book.
The main downside of the book is I don't see myself rereading it as its contents often anger me. While the book offers somewhat of a rolemodel in Thompson, it portrays his nuances enough to not render him as inspiring as he could be if idealized (which would be untrue but perhaps useful). The result is a book that made me angry without inspiring change. This is made even worse by the degree in which the system is shown to be rigged throughout the book, it makes most effort seem futile. I realize Hunter would've fought the system anyway but the author didn't have an agenda (which is great) but as such its hard to get much actionable out of the book.
The main downside of the book is I don't see myself rereading it as its contents often anger me. While the book offers somewhat of a rolemodel in Thompson, it portrays his nuances enough to not render him as inspiring as he could be if idealized (which would be untrue but perhaps useful). The result is a book that made me angry without inspiring change. This is made even worse by the degree in which the system is shown to be rigged throughout the book, it makes most effort seem futile. I realize Hunter would've fought the system anyway but the author didn't have an agenda (which is great) but as such its hard to get much actionable out of the book.
January 6, 2021
It was eerie reading this book at the end (hopefully) of the Trump presidency, so much of what happened at the end of the '60s & beginning of the '70s is (still) true today, the continuation of America's fascism. Nixon is the beginning & the model for Trump's populist fascism in 2020/2021. It was particularly true for someone such as me who lived through those years, watched the Chicago police riots on TV, voted for the first time against Nixon, & was drafted into the Army in 1969, voted against him again, & watched his inauguration in horror on TV with the sound off, the Rolling Stones on the stereo.
It's a good read, if you don't get distracted by the footnotes, which are almost another book, like Nabokov's Pale Fire. Since Thompson wrote about what Denevi is ultimately quoting, one would expect to see a litany of citations. But Denevi often pads the text with the full quote in the footnotes, or worse yet, cites spurious passages from Joseph Conrad, Joan Didion, Don DeLillo, even Italo Calvino, for what makes for hipster academic porn. There is even a footnote to a non-existent referent, which some editor probably cut, but then got lost in footnote-land.
If you want to read about Thompson's "ten-year crusade against American fascism," read HST's books, if you want to see America's contemporary fascism, turn on the TV news.
It's a good read, if you don't get distracted by the footnotes, which are almost another book, like Nabokov's Pale Fire. Since Thompson wrote about what Denevi is ultimately quoting, one would expect to see a litany of citations. But Denevi often pads the text with the full quote in the footnotes, or worse yet, cites spurious passages from Joseph Conrad, Joan Didion, Don DeLillo, even Italo Calvino, for what makes for hipster academic porn. There is even a footnote to a non-existent referent, which some editor probably cut, but then got lost in footnote-land.
If you want to read about Thompson's "ten-year crusade against American fascism," read HST's books, if you want to see America's contemporary fascism, turn on the TV news.
January 3, 2019
As a big fan of Hunter Thompson, this book covered a lot of well-known territory, but I learned enough new information and got pointed in the direction of some material I needed to read on my own. Not brilliant, but well worth the read.
August 16, 2019
This is a story well worth telling, and the author's passion for his subject is obvious. Maybe too obvious: like Thompson, he tends to write at an emotional fever pitch. But unlike Thompson, he frequently settles for the not-quite-right word or the quick cliché. And (perhaps influenced by Wallace?) he really lets his enthusiasms and eccentricity hang out in the end notes, which are full not just of references and expansions of the subject, but of off-topic commentary, personal stories, and quotations from authors such as Mailer, Wolfe, and Joseph Conrad, as well as at least one completely apocryphal story about William Faulkner. He's given to pronouncements without justification (for example, "I think it's important to remember that Thompson was an alcoholic," when all we know for sure is that Thompson drank to excess). He repeatedly describes one (admittedly alarming) scene as a "gang rape" when the woman's own memoir, quoted in an end note, refers to it as a "joyous gang-bang"--not quite the same thing. All these liberties decrease my trust in his objectivity and truthfulness. The notes indicate that a great deal of material has its source in Thompson's collected letters and essay collections; ultimately, I think these are likely to present a fuller and maybe even a more accurate picture of his life. But if you're looking for a quicker read and know nothing about Thompson beyond Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, have at it.
January 9, 2019
The focus on HST’s politics and writing style was a refreshing break from other books that seem preoccupied with stories about drug abuse and outlandish behavior. In the end, “Freak Kingdom” does a good job in showing that, in the long run, some of those vices actually damaged his writing more than it enhanced it.
December 12, 2018
If you want to pull back the curtain and see what made HST so brilliant during the 60s and 70s, this book is as close as it gets to capturing the man's incredible depth of expression and imagination.
January 4, 2019
Back when I was a young reporter (not a "journalist"; too pretentious to me) I read a lot of Hunter S. Thompson. Everybody in the newspaper business did. I think a lot of us aspired to write with the verve and style and flat-out guts that Thompson displayed.
Denevi's book reveals the torture that Thompson inflicted upon himself (alcoholism, drug addition, beatings by Hell's Angels and police) in his relentless attack on American fascism. Much of the book is a recap of the period from the late 1960s to the mid-1970s, when the entire American system seemed to be crumbling. It provides a reminder for people who remember that time, and an education for those who do not.
I hope this book revives interest in Thompson. The original "gonzo" journalist blazed the trail that many have attempted to follow, with little success (the exception, and closest heir to the gonzo throne, is Matt Taibi of Rolling Stone). I'm going to put Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail 1972 on my reading list for the year ... assuming I can find a copy.
Denevi's book reveals the torture that Thompson inflicted upon himself (alcoholism, drug addition, beatings by Hell's Angels and police) in his relentless attack on American fascism. Much of the book is a recap of the period from the late 1960s to the mid-1970s, when the entire American system seemed to be crumbling. It provides a reminder for people who remember that time, and an education for those who do not.
I hope this book revives interest in Thompson. The original "gonzo" journalist blazed the trail that many have attempted to follow, with little success (the exception, and closest heir to the gonzo throne, is Matt Taibi of Rolling Stone). I'm going to put Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail 1972 on my reading list for the year ... assuming I can find a copy.
February 1, 2019
This was a good look at HST’s career from Kennedy through Nixon. I am not sure the subtitle reflects what is actually in the book. While it’s clear he ended up laser-focused on Nixon after a career established on LBJ, Hell’s Angels, Kentucky Derby bourgeois, party bosses, violent police, crooked DAs, and narcotics law enforcement, the subtitle makes it sound like he woke up one day determined to take these on when in reality they kept happening to him, shaping his career and life, and leading to Gonzo journalism. That said, that’s not a criticism of this book. I thoroughly enjoyed the journey through the best years of HST’s career. And of course I loved the final two chapters, which cover Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and On The Campaign Trail ‘72—two of my favorite books ever.
April 14, 2023
Sadly almost forgotten now, Hunter Thompson was at one time one of the most insightful and innovative writers in America.And REALLY funny! This book is a biography focusing on his most productive years, 1964-74, when he took on much of the political establishment. Unfortunately, once he gained fame and fortune he became a caricature of himself; the drug-addled Doctor Gonzo. Still funny but often pointless. This is a well written book that explains how HST ended up in San Francisco during the pivotal mid 1960's and personally witnessed much of the bizarre political and cultural goings on.
Thompson, like many larger than life writers (think Hemingway) almost deliberately left behind a confused narrative ostensibly meant to confirm his mythical status. The author provides the factual story behind this facade. Of particular interest was an examination of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, arguably his most famous and funny book. Fascinating to learn that the Vegas trip actually happened but without the mountains of drugs described in the book. But that only makes the Vegas book more impressive as literature. Thompson basically made the story up!
HST had a Zelig-like ability to be present at important historical and cultural events. The Jefferson Airplane's first show at SF's Matrix and the Merry Pranksters famous meeting with the Hell's Angels in the Santa Cruz mountains. Claimed he was actually swimming laps in the Watergate basement pool at the exact same time as Nixon's plumbers were breaking into the Democratic HQ six floors above. So crazy it has to be true. a good read, but only for fans of the good doctor.
Thompson, like many larger than life writers (think Hemingway) almost deliberately left behind a confused narrative ostensibly meant to confirm his mythical status. The author provides the factual story behind this facade. Of particular interest was an examination of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, arguably his most famous and funny book. Fascinating to learn that the Vegas trip actually happened but without the mountains of drugs described in the book. But that only makes the Vegas book more impressive as literature. Thompson basically made the story up!
HST had a Zelig-like ability to be present at important historical and cultural events. The Jefferson Airplane's first show at SF's Matrix and the Merry Pranksters famous meeting with the Hell's Angels in the Santa Cruz mountains. Claimed he was actually swimming laps in the Watergate basement pool at the exact same time as Nixon's plumbers were breaking into the Democratic HQ six floors above. So crazy it has to be true. a good read, but only for fans of the good doctor.
January 8, 2019
If you are a Hunter S Thompson fan or an aspiring writer you'll want to read this book. Perhaps you are both a Thompson fan and an aspiring writer. If so, this book is mandatory. I could write paragraphs on it but I would take away from the pungency of the narrative and do the reader a disservice. Well worth the time. You'll wish it was twice as long as it is.
March 1, 2019
An interesting biography of the first third/half of Thompson's career, including the development of "Gonzo" journalism and his failed run for Pitkin County Sheriff. However, not much new ground was covered here, and the title - or, maybe, the framing of the book? - was a bit off: not sure what infiltrating the Hells Angels and hanging out at Ken Kesey's house have to do with "fighting facism," and the story left off after Nixon resigned - no mention of the George W. Bush era. Still, it was fun and fascinating reading.
May 8, 2019
I’ve read quite a bit by and about Hunter Thompson. Those who focus on the self-caricature he became miss the fact that, for a certain period in our history, he was one of the best political journalists in the business. Denevi does a good job of connecting the dots in Hunter’s writing as evidence of his passion for the truth.
January 8, 2019
For the HST fan, a ‘behind the book’ look at HST’s best decade of writing. From Nixon to Hell’s Angels, Fear and Loathing to Watergate, FK gets to the heart of what drove HST during these stranger-than-fiction years.
January 28, 2019
Freak Kingdom: Hunter S. Thompson's Manic Ten-Year Crusade Against American Fascism | Timothy Denevi ****/5
There is so much information in this book!
I haven't done a thorough study of Thompson's life and times, but I will be forever grateful that I stumbled upon this book.
Hunter S. Thompson was a man unlike any other. Ahead of his time, Thompson took journalism to a level never before seen. Beginning after Hunter moved his family to California shortly after the Kennedy assassination, Thompson began paving the way for realism in the news.
A worthy read for anyone who is a fan of Thompson or his work.
order a copy >> [ afflink - thank you so much ] https://amzn.to/2WpC77E
There is so much information in this book!
I haven't done a thorough study of Thompson's life and times, but I will be forever grateful that I stumbled upon this book.
Hunter S. Thompson was a man unlike any other. Ahead of his time, Thompson took journalism to a level never before seen. Beginning after Hunter moved his family to California shortly after the Kennedy assassination, Thompson began paving the way for realism in the news.
A worthy read for anyone who is a fan of Thompson or his work.
order a copy >> [ afflink - thank you so much ] https://amzn.to/2WpC77E
February 2, 2020
I knew very little about Hunter S. Thompson before reading this book. By no means did it make me an expert, but it did make me appreciate his legacy. A good, easy, read.
November 22, 2024
Excellent read, and if you want an example of the "history doesn't repeat itself but it rhymes," read this today...
December 2, 2025
This was incredible. Not only about HST’s life, but his on the nose perception of politics that is still so poignant to the current state of things. The author nailed the essence of HST. Would read again ❤️
January 11, 2019
Fucking incredible book
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