“I wouldn’t recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they’ve always worked for me.” – Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

While I have been a fan and avid reader of Hunter S. Thompson for about six years now, some of the criticism of the prolific journalist makes me think – was he really just a glorified, drug addict? No different from the “junkies” he carelessly mentions in almost every article he has ever written? Or was he, as I formerly believed, a great writer plagued by his own inner demons?

Evidence would suggest he was both. Thompson was born in 1937 in Lousiville, Kentucky and was the first-born of three sons. I could ramble on about the clubs he joined in his youth, his various attempts to enter society in a proper way, and list each member of his family, but why bother? Suffice to say, his childhood was tough. His father died when he was fourteen years old. A few years later, in high school, Hunter served a 31- day jail sentence for accessory to robbery and, as a result, was not allowed to graduate. When he left high school, he attempted to join the air force and trained at a base in San Antonio, Texas. He never completed his career as an aviator – though he graduated from a school later on, he was discharged from the Force for “his rebel and superior attitude” (this was written by William Evans, his commanding officer). Thompson wrote a piece about the air force lifestyle that’s included in a compilation book called, “The Great Shark Hunt.” He visits an air force base at this time and, in his own words, the visit “convinced [him] that Air Force test pilots see the rest of us, perhaps accurately, as either physical, mental, or moral rejects.”



Whatever kind of reject the air force base thought Thompson to be, his pursuit of that career led him to a discovery of a profession he was perfectly suitable for – journalism and writing. While Thompson was in Eglin, Florida at another air force base, he began taking classes at Florida State University and his interest was peaked in sports-writing. By “embellishing” (lying) about his job experience, Thompson managed to get a job as sports editor of The Command Courier. And the rest is history.



Churning out cult classics, like “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” and anti-politician rhetoric like, “Fear and Loathing on the Campain Trail ’72,” Hunter S. Thompson rose to counter-establishment fame. Known for his drug abuse, immense talent, and Rolling Stone reputation (he was a journalist with the magazine, when it first began gaining popularity), Hunter S. Thompson became a figure of both glory and disdain.



I have read “Fear and Loathing” at least three times and, off the top of my head, I can name six drugs that he supposedly consumed during that journey (in copious quantities) – mescaline, cocaine, marijuana, ether, LSD, methamphetamines. There were probably more mentions in the book, but I cannot recall them at the moment. What I do recall is the vibe of the whole thing – Thompson was fearless, funny, and – above all – poignant. His excessive comparisons of authority figures to Nazis did not dim his accountability in my mind. If anything, it heightened his credibility. If journalists could not call the governor a Nazi, then who, really, was in charge? The people or the government? Who should be?



I believe Hunter raised all of these questions in his work and that’s what separates him, to me, from a drug-addled burnout. Thompson’s rebellion spread throughout his life and seeped into his work. He did not need a degree, he did not need acceptance into a regular career, he did not need a peaceful death (he shot himself at the age of 67). And he sure as hell didn’t need the approval of his peers or even his employers. A lot of times, the magazines and journals that hired him had to edit or rewrite his pieces, finding them unacceptable morally and sometimes even legally for publication.



Something else that points me to the conclusion that Hunter was a true leader, not just a druggie who hopped on the right bandwagon out of pure luck, is that he did not blend in with other elements of drug culture. Someone not well-versed in drugs or drug culture might ponder why Thompson referred to those around him as “heads”, “junkies”, or “hippies” when he freely admitted to use of LSD, psilocybin, cocaine, marijuana, amphetamines, and more. To that, I answer that he did not use drugs to blend into a certain group of people – he did not believe in peace and love like the hippies, he did not believe that he was necessarily expanding his consciousness through reality-altering drugs like heads, and he was not reliant on any specific drug and homeless like most junkies were. Thompson used drugs for pleasure, for writing, for adventure.



These adventures could be wild, as artist and common collaborator of Thompson’s, Ralph Steadman, noted in an article by John Preston in the U.K.’s Telegraph. The two took psilocybin when they were supposed to be covering America’s Cup in Rhode Island and Steadman was inspired by the idea to spray paint “F*ck the Pope” on the side of an Australian yacht. Thompson readily agreed and rowed him over. They nearly escaped a run-in with the security guards there and the two of them dismayed in being unable to complete their malicious plan.



Besides these daring escapades, another thing I discovered in Preston’s article was that Ralph believed Hunter hated him upon meeting him, but in their collaborated-on article about the Kentucky Derby, I found no resentment in Thompson’s words. His humorous, rebellious attitude threw off the talented and inwardly drawn Steadman. Hunter’s death discombobulated the artist too: “I think in retrospect it depressed me more than I anticipated.”



Maybe Steadman, the artist who had been relatively cautious and consumed no drugs up until meeting Thompson, could not entirely grasp Thompson’s insubordinate attitude. Maybe, most people couldn’t – and still can’t. That does not mean that the writer and his work should be cast aside as relics of the drug era. Perhaps, if we were not raised on appearances and judgments thereof, Hunter Thompson’s outward ways and appearance would not throw us off half as much.



Re-reading Thompson’s article, “The Nonstudent Left”, published in The Nation in 1965, I wonder if he found some pride in the rebels he wrote about. I wonder if their intelligence and mistaken intentions resonated within him. I can only imagine. But when Thompson writes, “Many a man has whipped up a hell of a broth of reasons to justify his sellout, but few recommend the taste of it,” I can almost hear his Kentucky murmur. Thompson refused to taste his own broth, and –instead- never sold out. Even in the very end, when he felt he would be helpless in a nursing home at the whim of other people, he chose to go out in a shot of rebellion. Some would say that’s insanity. But, as we all know, insanity is very often a sign of genius.